THESE  LYNNEKERS 
J.  D.  BERESFORD 


BY     J.     D.     BERESFORD 

THESE  LYNNEKERS 

THE  EARLY  HISTORY  OP  JACOB  STAHL 

A  CANDIDATE  FOR  TRUTH 

THE  INVISIBLE  EVENT 

THE  HOUSE  IN  DEMETRIUS  ROAD 


GEORGE    H.    DORAN    COMPANY 
NEW    YORK 


THESE 
LYNNEKERS 


BY 

J.  D.  BERESFORD 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  EARLY  HISTORY  OF  JACOB  STAHL/ 
"A  CANDIDATE  FOR  TRUTH,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW    YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1916, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DOBAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO  MY  SON 


1 fling  away  ambition; 

By  that  sin  fell  the  angels " 

HENRY  VIII 


393R37 


CONTENTS 
BOOK   ONE 

CHAPTEB 

I    THE   EQUATION n 

II    OAKSTONE 22 

III  LAISSEZ  FAIRE 42 

IV  THE  LYNNEKER  METHOD 63 

V    MEDBOROUGH 78 

VI    THE  BEGINNING  OF  REASON 91 

VII    EDWARD 106 

VIII    MRS.  LYNNEKER 119 

IX    GEORGE  SMITH 146 

X    THE  GOD  OUT  OF  MAYFAIR 174 

XI    ADELA 219 

XII    BRIAN  LESSING 257 

BOOK   TWO 

XIII  JULY,    1903 301 

XIV  THE  NEW  OAKSTONE 333 

XV    SIBYL 354 

XVI    THE  HERMIT 394 

XVII    THE  MISSING  INDUCTION 411 

XVIII    THE    Two    SACRAMENTS 437 

XIX    THE  LYNNEKER  FAMILY 449 


BOOK    ONE 


THESE  LYNNEKERS 


I 

THE  EQUATION 


YOU  might  tell  young  Dickie  I  want  him,"   Latimer 
said.    "He's  in  the  stable,  making  a  rabbit-hutch." 

"I'm  going  the  other  way."  Adela's  errand  was  too  im- 
portant to  be  postponed  by  carrying  messages  between  her 
younger  brothers;  and  the  stables  were  at  least  fifty  yards 
in  the  wrong  direction.  "I'm  taking  this  soup  to  old  Mrs. 
Oliver,"  she  explained.  "I  shall  be  going  out  by  the  top 
gate." 

Latimer  grudgingly  conceded  the  importance  of  the  can 
his  sister  exhibited.  "I'm  swatting  up  these  beastly  maths 
for  my  scholarship,"  he  said,  dropping  from  the  urgency 
of  his  first  command. 

Adela  at  seventeen  had  developed  a  difficult  independence. 
As  her  skirts  grew  longer  and  her  hair  crept  up  by  slow 
stages  so  that  now  the  tail  of  it  hung  scarcely  lower  than 
the  collar  of  her  braided  jacket,  she  had  come  to  exhibit  an 
incomprehensible  contrariety.  Even  Edward,  two  years 
her  senior,  dignified  by  the  fact  that  he  had  left  school  last 
term  and  was  going  up  to  Cambridge  in  October,  found 
that  diplomacy  had  had  to  take  the  place  of  command. 
Adela  was,  according  to  Edward,  evolving  a  temperament. 
She  was  learning  to  play  the  organ  and  had  already  pub- 
licly performed  "Hill's  March"  as  a  voluntary  after  evening 
service. 

11 


12  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"Awful  swat,"  Latimer  continued,  tactfully  working  upon 
his  sister's  sympathies.  "I'm  no  earthly  good  at  maths,  but 
I  have  to  get  up  enough  just  to  pass  in  'em.  And  I  wanted 
young  Dickie  to  explain  something.  He's  good  at  this 
rotten  stuff,"  he  added,  with  a  hint  of  contempt  to  cover 
the  indignity  of  appealing  for  help  to  a  kid  of  fourteen  in 
the  junior  school. 

"No  good  looking  at  me,  I  can't  explain  them/'  Adela  re- 
plied, with  the  superiority  of  the  recently  acclaimed  artist. 

Latimer  leant  back  in  his  chair  and  yawned,  and  then 
hastily  sat  forward  again.  "This  chair's  awfully  rocky," 
he  remarked.  "The  whole  affair'll  come  to  pieces  one  of 
these  days."  He  got  up  and  roughly  pulled  the  back  up 
to  its  normal  angle  again.  "I  suppose  I'd  better  go  and 
get  young  Dickie,"  he  said.  "He  might  do  something  to 
this  bally  chair,  too." 

"I'll  tell  him  if  you  like,"  Adela  conceded. 

"Oh!  don't  bother,"  protested  Latimer. 

"It's  all  right,"  Adela  said. 

She  left  her  soup  can  on  the  dining-room  taole. 

Latimer  investigated  the  contents  with  faint  disgust; 
strolled  over  to  the  window,  and  then  returned  to  a  con- 
templation of  his  algebra. 


ii 

"Good  Lord,  you  are  in  a  muck,"  was  his  greeting  to 
the  obedient  Dickie. 

Dickie  frowned  impatiently.  He  had  been  called  away 
from  the  construction  of  what  promised  to  be  an  unusually 
respectable  rabbit-hutch,  at  that  most  interesting  stage 
when  the  thing  begins  to  take  shape,  and  all  the  hard  work 
of  the  patient  young  carpenter  is  rewarded  by  the  delight 
of  fitting  and  fastening  his  creation  into  the  ideally  con- 
ceived form. 

"Am  I  ?"  he  asked,  and  picked  a  shaving  from  a  crease  in 
his  waistcoat.  "What  did  you  want  me  for?" 


THE  EQUATION  13 

"Your  hair's  full  of  chips,"  commented  Latimer  fastidi- 
ously. 

Dickie's  hair  was  a  reproach  to  the  whole  Lynneker 
family.  It  was  quite  too  exuberant;  and  all  the  gibes  of 
Edward,  Adela  and  Latimer  were  insufficient  to  keep  it 
cropped  closely  enough  to  hide  a  tendency  to  wave. 
Dickie's  hair  had  never  curled,  but  when  it  was  permitted 
to  grow  it  fell  into  the  conventional  tumultuous  masses  of 
sculpture. 

"Oh!  I  can't  help  it,"  protested  Dickie.  "Does  it  mat- 
ter? I'm  going  back  directly.  What  did  you  want  me 
for?" 

"Look  here,  you're  getting  most  confoundedly  cheeky, 
you  young  beggar,"  Latimer  advised  him;  and  Dickie,  well 
drilled  as  became  the  youngest  of  a  family  of  five,  set  his 
mouth  firmly  and  attempted  no  reply. 

"Apologise!"  commanded  Latimer. 

"I'm  sorry,"  Dickie  said,  so  perfunctorily  that  his 
brother  might  have  demanded  fuller  satisfaction  had  he 
not  had  a  favour  to  ask.  In  the  circumstances,  he  thought 
it  wiser  to  appear  mollified. 

"Look  here,"  he  began,  "I  wish  you'd  have  a  squint  at 
this  filthy  quadratic.  I  can't  see  what's  wrong  with  it. 
Number  23,"  he  went  on,  pushing  the  book  and  his  own 
paper  of  figures  towards  his  brother.  "I'll  swear  I've 
stated  it  all  right." 

Dickie  was  in  a  hurry  and  wasted  no  time.  He  read  the 
example  aloud  in  an  undertone,  and  then  fixed  his  eyes 
vacantly  on  the  mantelpiece  opposite. 

"You  must  make  'x'  equal  the  single  file,"  he  said ;  "then 
*x2'  will  equal  the  company;  and  .  .  ." 

Latimer  interrupted  him.  "I  have,"  he  said  caustically. 
"Don't  you  think  you  might  look  at  my  working?" 

Dickie  submissively  picked  up  his  brother's  calculations 
and  went  through  them.  "It's  all  right,"  he  announced. 
"The  answer's  16.  What's  the  matter  with  it?" 

"There's  a  mistake  somewhere,"  Latimer  said  resolutely. 
He  had  authority  in  store,  but  he  preferred  to  reserve  it 


14  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

for  a  time.  Young  Dickie  was  so  cocksure  about  his  mathe- 
matics; it  would  be  a  distinct  score  to  let  him  thoroughly 
commit  himself  before  producing  the  crushing  evidence. 

Dickie  impatiently  ran  through  his  brother's  calculations 
a  second  time.  "It's  perfectly  all  right,"  he  said. 

"Well,  I  tell  you  it  isn't,"  Latimer  returned.  "If  you 
want  to  know,  the  answer's  '19.' " 

Dickie  shook  his  head.  "It's  *i6/  "  he  affirmed.  "It  must 
be.  You  can  prove  it." 

'Trove  away,  you  young  ass,"  sneered  Latimer.  "Only 
perhaps  you  might  take  the  trouble  to  look  it  up  in  the 
answers  to  examples." 

Dickie  obediently  turned  to  the  end  of  the  book  and 
made  a  careful  comparison  of  the  characteristic  figures  of 
the  example  and  the  key. 

Latimer  had  the  tip  of  his  tongue  between  his  teeth.  His 
eyes  gloated  on  the  prospect  of  his  brother's  humiliation. 

"It  must  be  a  misprint,"  Dickie  said. 

For  a  moment  Latimer  was  speechless  with  amazement. 
This,  indeed,  was  the  climax  of  Dickie's  infatuation. 

"Good  Lord,  you  little  fool,"  he  gasped,  struggling  to 
find  some  adequate  expression  for  the  immensity  of  his  con- 
tempt; "you  don't  mean  to  say  you  know  better  than  the 
book?" 

Dickie  was  slightly  abashed,  but  still  persistent.  "Well, 
the  answer  must  be  '16,' "  he  submitted. 

"But  it  isn't,  you  cuckoo,  it's  '*$,' "  Latimer  shouted 
vehemently. 

Dickie  pushed  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  came  across 
a  chip  which  he  put  in  his  mouth,  and  then  dropped  to  a 
dogged  statement  of  the  fact  that  the  figure  "19"  did  not 
satisfy  the  equation. 

"You're  too  infernally  cocky,"  was  Latimer's  counter- 
blast. He  was  righteously  indignant.  If  Dickie  were  going 
to  question  the  sacred  pronouncements  of  Todhunter,  the 
whole  system  of  authority  would  be  threatened.  Moreover, 
Latimer  had  greater  faith  in  the  printed  figure  than  in 
Dickie's  powers  of  discretion.  Algebra  examples  and  ex- 


THE  EQUATION  15 

amination  papers  were  like  other  incomprehensible  erudi- 
tions, they  had  some  esoteric  quality;  they  asked  ques- 
tions or  made  assertions  that  were  beyond  the  understand- 
ing. And  if  they  were  questioned  on  common  grounds  the 
enquirer  found  himself  held  up  to  scorn  as  an  ignorant 
fool  who  could  not  read  the  subtle,  and  incidentally  un- 
impeachable mysteries  that  underlay  the  surface  statement. 

Dickie's  expression  pathetically  asked  when  he  might  be 
allowed  to  return  to  his  rabbit-hutch.  He  had  done  his  best. 
If  his  brother  foolishly  persisted  in  accepting  an  impossible 
figure  in  face  of  certain  evidence,  no  one  could  help  him. 

"Can  I  go,  Latimer?"  he  asked. 

Latimer  scowled.  "Not  till  you  say  you're  wrong,"  he 
said. 

"But  I'm  not  wrong,"  Dickie  rather  quaveringly  asserted ; 
and  the  wrangle  began  again. 

"Can't  you  see,  you  young  ass,  that  the  answer's  '19'?" 

"But  it  won't  work." 

"It  would  if  you  understood  the  question,  only  you  don't. 
You're  so  confoundedly  cocksure."  And  then  rising  to  the 
pitch  of  querulous  indignation,  the  note  of  one  who  would 
passionately  defend  authority  and  has  no  argument,  Latimer 
went  on :  "Why,  great  Scott,  if  you're  calmly  going  to  say 
that  every  answer  in  the  key's  wrong  when  it  doesn't  agree 
with  your  own,  what  on  earth's  the  good  of — of  anything? 
I  mean  what's  the  good  of  having  algebra  at  all,  you  idiot?" 

"It's  only  one  answer." 

"How  do  you  know  ?    Have  you  tried  them  all  ?" 

"I  say,  Latimer,  can't  I  go,  now?" 

"Is  the  answer  '19'  or  '16'?" 

Dickie  weighed  the  chances  of  a  surely  permissible  ex- 
pediency before  he  decided  that  he  could  not  deny  the  va- 
lidity of  his  own  intellectual  processes. 
'  '19'  won't  work,"  he  said. 

Latimer  jumped  to  his  feet  and  caught  him  by  the  wrist. 

"Oh !  shut  up,  Latimer,"  protested  Dickie,  as  his  right  arm 
was  twisted  behind  his  back. 

"Admit  you're  wrong,  then." 


16  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"But  '19'  .  .  .  oh !  Latimer,  shut  up,  you're  hurting  most 
frightfully." 
"Admit  you're  wrong!" 


in 

Those  two  years  in  Latimer's  favour  had  given  him 
the  right  to  bully.  Dickie's  occasional  resentments  in  mo- 
ments of  passion,  his  weak  physical  oppositions,  had  al- 
ways resulted  in  more  drastic  lickings,  a  deeper  ignominy. 
The  convention  had  been  established  in  the  nursery:  Lati- 
mer was  older  and  taller  than  Dickie,  Latimer  was,  there- 
fore, stronger  and  had  autocratic  powers  when  the  two 
brothers  were  alone.  And  until  last  holidays  the  conven- 
tion had  worked  agreeably  enough.  The  two  boys  had  had 
common  ground  in  defending  themselves  against  Edward; 
and  although  they  had  never  formed  an  offensive  alliance 
against  him,  nor  even  developed  their  defensive  tactics  to 
the  point  of  rescuing  one  another  from  an  occasional  lick- 
ing, they  had  been  united  by  their  sense  of  playing  on  the 
same  side. 

But  a  recognisable  breach  had  begun  to  open  between 
Latimer  and  Dickie  during  the  Easter  holidays.  Latimer 
was  becoming  suddenly  adult,  and  had  gone  over  to  the 
enemy;  and  he  and  Edward  had  developed  what  Dickie 
considered  to  be  the  nasty  habit  of  continually  sharing  some 
joke  from  which  he  was  always  excluded. 

That  new  alliance  had  thrown  Dickie  upon  his  own  re- 
sources. He  played  cricket  or  tennis  with  the  other  two, 
but  he  was  being  relegated  to  the  position  of  a  junior  whose 
duty  it  was  to  fag ;  a  duty  that  he  consciously  resented.  In 
the  old  days  he  and  Latimer  had  had  a  remedy ;  under  great 
provocation  from  Edward  they  could  declare  a  strike, 
could  down  tools,  and  go  off  to  an  improvised  game  of  their 
own.  And,  in  effect,  Dickie  had  adopted  the  same  compro- 
mise, and  more  particularly  during  this  summer  holiday,  by 
finding  a  resource  in  the  pleasures  of  carpentry.  It  is  true 


THE  EQUATION  17 

that  he  was  not  safe,  that  the  use  of  the  tools  might  be  for- 
bidden, since  they  belonged  according  to  tradition  to  his 
elder  brothers ;  but  he  had  exhibited  a  skill  and  diligence  in 
the  mending  and  making  of  rabbit-hutches  that  had  en- 
listed his  mother's  unsolicited  support.  And  when  Lati- 
mer  interfered  with  Dickie's  peaceful  occupation  on  the 
ground  that  he  was  spoiling  the  tools,  he  could  plead  that 
he  was  making  something  for  mother,  and  if  the  thing  was 
not  completed  Mrs.  Lynneker  would  inevitably  intervene  to 
plead  in  her  gentle  nervous  way  for  her  own  rights,  if  not 
for  Dickie's. 

On  occasion  Latimer  or  Edward  had  sought  to  circum- 
vent this  diplomacy  by  finishing  the  job  themselves,  but 
they  were  both  as  clumsy  with  their  hands  as  Dickie  was 
skilful ;  while  it  was  unbearable  to  work  under  a  little 
brother's  silent  criticism  of  their  incompetence.  So,  in  the 
course  of  five  weeks,  Dickie  had  established  a  right  to  the 
use  of  the  stable-building  that  was  used  as  a  workshop — 
a  right  that  he  had  earned  by  craftsmanship — and  the 
breach  between  him  and  Latimer  had  widened  and  friction 
had  increased. 

Latimer's  reaction  to  the  new  relationships  had  shown 
itself  in  an  access  of  spitefulness.  He  resented  his  brother's 
proficiencies  in  handicraft,  in  mathematics  and  in  such 
games  as  chess  and  draughts,  and  sought  to  establish  a 
balance  by  bullying  him.  Latimer  had  the  autocrat's  natu- 
ral fear  of  a  possible  rival,  and  had  been  driven  back  to 
force  in  order  to  maintain  his  dignities. 

And,  now,  on  this  eventful  morning,  he  was  to  learn 
that  he  could  rely  no  longer  even  on  seniority  to  uphold  his 
rule.  He  was  three  inches  taller  than  his  brother,  but  he 
was  slightly  built,  while  Dickie  was  broad-shouldered  and 
sturdy  and  altogether  in  better  physical  condition. 

"Admit  you're  wrong!"  Latimer  insisted  and  pressed  his 
authority  to  the  breaking  point. 

Dickie  began  his  revolution  by  strategy.  He  yelped 
alarmingly,  and  risking  further  agony,  gave  way  suddenly 
at  the  knees.  Latimer  was  startled  into  releasing  his  over- 


18  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

whelming  advantage,  and  let  go  his  hold  of  the  tortured, 
twisted  arm. 

For  a  few  seconds  Dickie  squatted  on  the  floor  rubbing 
his  elbow  and  shoulder,  and  then,  shuffling  a  little  away 
from  his  tyrant,  regained  his  feet. 

"Admit  you're  wrong,"  Latimer  began  once  again  threat- 
eningly, but  Dickie  set  his  mouth  and  glared  defiance. 

"I'm  right,"  he  said  resolutely.  "It's  a  misprint.  Any 
one  can  see  that  '19'  won't  work — it  hasn't  got  a  square 
root  to  begin  with." 

Latimer  wisely  avoided  the  controversial  point.  "Come 
here!"  he  commanded  brutally. 

"I  shan't,"  replied  Dickie. 

"Do  you  want  the  worst  licking  youVe  ever  had  in  all 
your  life?" 

"No,  I  don't,  and  you're  not  going  to  give  it  me,  either." 

Latimer  realised  that  he  must  lose  his  temper.  He  was 
afraid.  It  is  so  difficult  to  begin  an  attack  on  a  passive  an- 
tagonist, and  Latimer  was  too  civilised  to  risk  a  straight 
blow  at  Dickie's  undefended  face.  Refined  tortures  like 
the  twisting  of  an  arm  could  be  carried  by  controllable 
degrees  to  almost  any  length,  but  the  contrast  between  that 
method  and  the  deliberate  frontal  attack  marks  the  differ- 
ence between  nervous  civilisation  and  irresponsible  savagery. 

"Infernal  cheek!"  Latimer  shouted. 

Dickie  stared  in  resolute  silence,  his  mouth  set,  his  hands 
loosely  clenched. 

Latimer  came  one  step  nearer  and  made  a  snatch  at 
Dickie's  wrist.  Dickie  backed  a  little  and  that  movement 
made  a  beginning  possible. 

"Come  here!"  snouted  Latimer,  and  achieved  the  loss 
of  temper  that  could  alone  carry  him  over  the  difficult 
sticking  point. 

He  made  a  rush,  Dickie  ducked,  and  then  the  two  boys 
clenched,  and  the  fight  resolved  itself  into  a  wrestling  match, 
Latimer  hitting  wildly  and  ineffectively  whenever  he  could 
get  a  hand  free,  an  error  in  tactics  that  was  partly  respon- 
sible for  his  downfall. 


THE  EQUATION  19 

He  came  down  on  his  back  and  his  head  bumped  re- 
soundingly on  a  floor  quite  inefficiently  padded  by  a  string 
carpet.  It  occurred  to  him  that  it  might  be  good  policy  to 
lie  still.  He  had  come  startlingly  to  a  realisation  of  the  fact 
that  "that  young  beggar  Dickie  was  most  beastly  strong," 
and  thought  he  might  be  decently  relieved  from  further 
assertions  of  his  superiority  at  that  moment  by  the  pre- 
tence of  being  slightly  stunned. 

He  kept  his  eyes  shut  and  awaited  some  cowardly  prose- 
cution of  the  initiative,  but  when  the  interval  of  silence 
had  been  unendurably  prolonged,  a  furtive  return  to  con- 
sciousness discovered  that  Dickie  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of 
the  table  and  staring  imperturbably  out  of  the  window. 

Latimer  was  gravely  disconcerted.  No  really  promising 
plan  of  action  suggested  itself.  He  shirked  the  effort  en- 
tailed by  an  elaborate  assumption  of  a  recovery  from  un- 
consciousness ;  and  could  think  of  no  sound  argument  to 
demonstrate  the  unquestionable  fact  that  he  had  been  most 
unfairly  handled. 

"Rotten  little  cad,"  he  said  at  last.  He  made  the  state- 
ment judicially,  as  one  who  is  above  contradiction.  He 
remained  on  the  floor,  with  his  hands  now  under  his  head, 
which  he  was  sure  must  have  been  badly  bruised  although 
it  had  not  begun  to  hurt  as  yet. 

Dickie  continued  to  stare,  a  little  moodily,  out  of  the 
window. 

"That's  all  rot,"  he  said  calmly.  He  was  trying  to  un- 
derstand all  that  this  victory  of  his  might  connote.  During 
that  decisive  encounter  he  had  realised  for  the  first  time 
that  he  was  a  strong  and  capable  fighter.  And  that  know- 
ledge set  him  free.  He  was  no  longer  a  fag.  He  did  not 
wish  to  take  any  undue  advantage  of  the  fact,  but  he  felt 
that  it  must  be  clearly  ratified. 

"Rotten  little  cad,"  Latimer  repeated  steadily.  It  was 
quite  evident  that  he  had  found  his  line,  and  meant  to  con- 
tinue his  assertion  indefinitely  without  regard  to  any  possi- 
ble argument. 

"Oh!  all  right,"  Dickie  said.     "I'm  a  cad  if  you  like. 


20  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

You  bumped  my  head  against  the  stable  wall  last  holidays, 
but  I  suppose  that  doesn't  count.  Anyway  you're  licked, 
and  I  can  lick  you  again  when  I  want  to,  and  I'm  not  going 
to  fag  for  you  any  more  or  do  any  other  jolly  thing  for 
you  if  I  don't  want  to.  And  the  answer  to  that  equation  is 
'16,'  I  don't  care  what  the  key  says ;  and  I'm  going  back  to 
finish  my  hutch." 

He  did  not  wait  to  receive  a  reply  to  this  bold  claim 
for  independence.  He  got  out  of  the  room  as  quickly  as  he 
could,  blundering  a  little  as  was  his  habit,  and  left  his  an- 
nouncement to  sink  in. 


IV 

He  came  back  to  his  work  with  a  sense  of  elation.  He 
was  aware  that  he  had  conquered  something  stronger  than 
his  brother's  physical  or  mental  opposition.  He  had  scored 
in  some  way,  he  thought,  by  carrying  his  victory  to  a  definite 
conclusion.  He  had  been  tempted  to  be  magnanimous  when 
he  had  thrown  Latimer,  to  be  what  both  his  brothers  would 
have  called  "decent"  about  it;  and  instead  of  giving  way 
to  the  impulse  he  had  sat  on  the  table  and  had  argued  the 
point  out  with  himself.  Nevertheless  he  had  funked  again 
when  it  came  to  asserting  his  right  to  the  fruits  of  victory. 
All  his  home-training,  all  the  example  of  his  family, — with 
the  possible  exception  of  Adela — had  urged  him  to  take 
the  easier  course,  to  relinquish  his  advantage  for  the  sake 
of  re-establishing  friendly  relations.  And  he  was  glad,  now, 
that  he  had  resisted  the  temptation.  He  felt  strong  and 
assertive,  ready  to  go  out  again  and  begin  the  battle  afresh. 
He  did  not  know  that  he  had  conquered  the  Lynneker  weak- 
ness, but  he  was  definitely  aware  of  a  sense  of  victory.  .  .  . 

He  looked  up  from  his  work  half  an  hour  later  to  see 
Latimer  thoughtfully  kicking  a  stone  round  and  round  the 
stable  yard.  Presently  he  dribbled  the  stone  to  the  door  of 
the  outhouse. 

Dickie  looked  at  him  boldly,  but  Latimer's  eyes  were  ap- 


THE  EQUATION  21 

parently  concerned  with  anything  but  his  brother's   face. 

"Nearly  finished?"  he  asked. 

"Nearly,"  Dickie  replied. 

"I  expect  dinner's  about  ready.  Hadn't  you  better 
wash  ?" 

"Oh!  hang!     I  suppose  I  had.    I  shan't  be  half  a  tick." 

"The  mater's  in." 

"All  right.     I'm  coming." 

Dickie  laid  his  chisel  carefully  on  the  old  table  that  served 
as  a  bench  and  began  to  dab  at  the  sawdust  on  his  waist- 
coat. 

"I  say,  look  here,"  began  Latimer. 

"What?"  asked  Dickie  with  a  touch  of  defiance. 

"You're  not  going  to  tell  Edward  we  had  a  row?" 

"Well,  rather  not.     Why  should  I?" 

"I  don't  know."  Latimer  had  picked  up  a  bradawl  and 
was  absently  stabbing  at  a  loose  board. 

Dickie  suffered  another  qualm  before  he  said,  "Oh !  look 
out,  I'm  going  to  use  that  wood,  and  you'll  smash  the  brad- 
awl if  you're  not  careful."  He  felt  that  he  was  taking  an 
unfair  advantage  of  Latimer 's  magnanimity  in  overlooking 
recent  insults. 

Latimer  put  down  the  bradawl  and  went  over  to  the 
door.  He  stood  on  the  threshold  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  kicked  the  door-post  undecidedly,  and  then  said : 

"You  aren't  going  to  be  a  young  ass,  are  you?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  so,"  replied  Dickie,  after  a  moment's 
hesitation.  "But  I'm  not  a  bit  sorry  I  licked  you  this  morn- 
ing. I'm  sick  of  being  kicked  about  all  over  the  shop,  and 
I  meant  what  I  said  about  jolly  well  not  fagging  any  more." 

Latimer  began  to  whistle.  "As  long  as  you  don't  put  on 
side,"  he  remarked ;  and  Dickie  knew  that  he  had  won  that 
bout,  and  that  he  might,  if  he  cared,  do  anything  with  a 
family  whose  chief  concern  was  the  desire  for  friendly 
relations. 

All  the  fret  and  bother  of  open  quarrels  required  so  much 
effort. 

Neither  Dickie  nor  Latimer  mentioned  the  equation  again. 


II 

OAKSTONE 


ACCORDING  to  the  diagnosis  of  his  form-master, 
Dickie  "went  stale"  at  the  age  of  fifteen.  The  lower 
fifth  was  the  recognised  dead  end  at  Oakstone;  "boys  of  a 
certain  type,"  as  Wickford  classified  them,  reached  the 
privileges  of  the  lower  fifth  by  a  splendid  effort  and  stayed 
there  till  they  left.  But  Dickie  astonishingly  stuck  in  the 
form  below,  known  in  those  days  as  "the  Remove" ;  and  all 
Mr.  Wickford's  exertions  failed  to  push  him  on  into  the 
upper  school.  A  phrase  had  to  be  found  to  explain  this 
almost  unprecedented  failure. 

Joyce,  another  permanent  resident  in  the  Remove,  was 
easily  accounted  for.  His  proper  place,  if  learning  were 
the  test  of  position,  was  in  some  shameful  depth  of  igno- 
rance among  children  of  ten  and  eleven.  He  was  put  in 
the  Remove,  mainly  for  aesthetic  reasons.  A  young  man  of 
five  foot  ten  with  explorable  hair  on  his  upper  lip,  destroyed 
the  symmetry  and  offended  the  decency  of  the  lower  se- 
cond. Joyce's  limitations  had  been  fully  comprehended  be- 
fore he  had  been  at  Oakstone  for  three  terms — a  less  gen- 
eralised psychology  would  have  explained  them  in  a  week, 
and  might  possibly  have  found  an  outlet  for  him — and  he 
was  perfectly  comfortable  in  his  accredited  seat  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  form;  an  old  resident  of  years'  standing,  who, 
despite  his  many  obvious  stupidities,  was  quite  able  to  enter 
into  the  spirit  of  the  witticism  when  Wickford  sought  to 
enliven  a  dull  ten  minutes  by  casually  asking  him  a  ques- 
tion. Joyce  had  become  a  stock  joke  to  be  endlessly  elabo- 

22 


OAKSTONE  23 

rated,  and  he  smiled  complacently  at  his  own  undignified 
uses.  Every  one  knew  that  he  had  a  bad  negro  strain  in 
him.  The  majority  of  the  boys  were  quite  ignorant  of  his 
surname,  and  an  innocent  new  master  had  once  entered 
him  as  "Nigger,  H.  L."  on  the  class  list. 

Lynneker  II  was  in  another  category. 

Mr.  James  had  passed  him  up  from  "the  fourth"  with 
his  usual  summary  of  potentialities.  "A  hopeless  duffer 
at  classics,"  James  wrote,  "and  has  no  memory  for  Eng- 
lish subjects  such  as  history  and  geography,  but  promises 
to  be  a  fair  mathematician.  He  has  not  the  intelligence  of 
either  of  his  two  elder  brothers,  nor  has  he  their  general 
characteristic  teachableness ;  but  he  is  on  the  whole  a  nice, 
well-behaved  boy,  although  ferociously  obstinate  in  some 
respects."  ("Ferocious"  was  James's  pet  adjective;  he  had 
been  known  to  describe  a  boy  as  "ferociously  placid.") 

Wickford  was  not  discouraged  by  this  report.  He  had 
had  worse  cases  that  had  not  destroyed  his  reputation  for 
being  able  to  whip  any  boy  into  the  lower  fifth  in  three 
terms  at  the  outside.  But  when  Dickie  had  hung,  sus- 
pended in  mid-class,  for  nearly  two  years,  a  phrase  had 
to  be  found  to  account  for  the  unusual  phenomenon  of  a 
reasonably  intelligent  boy  staying  in  the  Remove. 

"He  seems  to  have  gone  stale,"  Wickford  humbly  con- 
fessed to  the  head,  and  after  a  short  discussion  the  Head 
decided  to  write  to  Lynneker's  father. 

The  drastic  remedy  suggested  in  that  letter  brought  con- 
sternation to  the  Lynneker  family.  Dr.  Barnard,  with  a 
thoughtless  brevity,  had  proposed  to  put  Dickie  on  the 
"Modern  Side."  As  a  prescription,  it  would  probably  have 
failed  to  stimulate  Dickie  in  that  fallow  period  of  his  early 
puberty.  The  subjects  taught  on  the  Modern  Side  at  Oak- 
stone  under  Barnard,  differed  mainly  by  the  substitution  of 
French  and  German  for  Latin  and  Greek.  Science  was 
distantly  acknowledged  by  a  few  perfunctory  classes  in  in- 
organic chemistry,  and  mathematics  were  extended  to  in- 
clude dynamics,  statics  and  trigonometry.  But  the  classic 
tradition  had  affected  the  whole  principle  of  the  teaching; 


24  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

and  Dickie's  one  developed  gift  would  not  have  carried  him 
through  the  quagmire  of  ill-expounded  "English  subjects" 
that  were  still  necessary  to  raise  him  from  form  to 
form.  , 


II 

Dickie's  father  never  read  his  letters  at  the  breakfast 
table;  and  when  he  called  his  wife  into  the  sacred  pre- 
cincts of  his  study  at  eleven  o'clock,  and  asked  her  to  sit 
down,  she  knew  that  some  serious  trouble  was  in  the  air. 
So  apprehensive  was  she,  indeed,  that  she  failed  to  grasp 
the  infamy  implied  by  Dr.  Barnard's  suggestion. 

"Does  that  mean  some  kind  of  disgrace?"  she  asked 
anxiously. 

"Impossible  for  him  to  think  of  a  scholarship,"  her 
husband  replied,  avoiding  explanations  and  conveying  his 
sense  of  some  impassable  gulf  between  their  ways  of 
thought  in  this  regard. 

He  never  had  explained  certain  things  to  her,  not  be- 
cause there  was  a  fundamental  lack  of  sympathy  between 
them,  but  because  he  was  inarticulate  where  his  reserves 
were  concerned.  He  could  not  explain,  now,  why  the 
thought  of  any  son  of  his  being  educated  on  the  "Modern 
Side"  was  distasteful  to  him.  He  had  been  a  fellow  of 
Emmanuel  (resigning  his  Fellowship  under  the  old  Univer- 
sity laws  on  his  marriage) ,  and  his  two  elder  boys  had  both 
won  classical  scholarships  at  Cambridge.  That  was  the 
honoured  tradition  that  Dickie  was  about  to  break  in  an 
untraditional  way.  There  were  other  ways  of  breaking  it, 
more  shameful;  but,  inexplicably,  less  perturbing.  They 
were,  it  is  true,  cause  for  distress  but  of  another  kind.  Mr. 
Lynneker's  elder  brother  who  held  the  family  living  at 
Culver  had  four  sons,  only  two  of  whom  had  gone  to  the 
University,  but  the  other  two  could  be  accounted  for  as 
precociously  sowing  their  wild  oats.  Dickie's  failure  was 
more  plebeian.  In  Mr.  Lynneker's  thought  the  idea  of  the 


OAKSTONE  25 

"Modern  Side"  was  associated  with  trade ;  and  Dickie's  ma- 
ternal grandfather  had  been  a  tea-merchant. 

He  shirked  that  issue  and  went  on:  "It's  quite  out  of 
the  question  to  send  him  to  Cambridge  unless  he  gets  a 
scholarship.  I  don't  know  where  the  money's  coming 
from  for  Barnard's  fees  next  term." 

Mrs.  Lynneker's  face  slipped  automatically  into  the  par- 
ticular expression  of  distress  that  it  always  wore  when 
this  perpetual,  heart-breaking  question  of  money  was  un- 
der discussion.  Her  eyebrows  drew  together  and  her  mouth 
tightened.  For  fifteen  years  she  had  met  her  husband's 
complaints  about  expenditure  with  a  pained  silence  and 
that  expression  of  helpless  distress. 

"I'm  overdrawn  nearly  three  hundred  pounds  at  the 
Bank,  now,"  Mr.  Lynneker  continued  almost  by  force  of 
habit,  "and  I  suppose  I  must  sell  more  shares.  I  don't 
know  how  much  longer  this  sort  of  thing  can  go  on.  Ed- 
ward's costing  me  more  than  a  hundred  a  year  at  Em- 
manuel, and  if  he  stays  on  at  home  while  I  give  him  a  title 
for  orders.  .  .  ."  He  fidgeted  with  his  neat  grey  beard 
and  then  added :  "And  Latimer  will  be  going  up  to  Downing 
in  October.  His  scholarship  is  only  £35,  and  he  will  be  on 
my  hands  for  at  least  three  years." 

Neither  husband  nor  wife  had  looked  at  one  another 
since  the  topic  of  money  had  been  opened.  There  had  been 
a  steady  misunderstanding  between  them  on  that  question 
ever  since  the  expenses  of  their  family  had  begun  to  over- 
take their  income.  His  unexpressed  complaint  was  that 
she  "could  not  understand  the  value  of  money";  hers  that 
he  exaggerated  his  difficulties.  And  neither  of  them  had 
ever  put  their  grievance  into  words  in  each  other's  pres- 
ence. The  children  knew  both  sides,  and  Eleanor,  the 
eldest  of  the  family,  was  furtively  trying  to  reduce  expenses, 
while  Edward  was  inclined  to  agree  with  his  mother.  He 
had  good  reason  to  hope  that  she  was  right  in  her  estimate, 
for  he  had  bills  at  Cambridge  that  he  could  never  hope  to 
pay  out  of  his  allowance.  The  other  three,  and  more  par- 
ticularly Adela,  took  the  line  that  it  was  "bound  to  be  all 


26  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

right."  Mrs.  Lynneker,  after  a  decent  interval  of  pained 
forbearance,  gently  slipped  away  from  the  awful  topic  by 
saying, 

"I  don't  quite  understand  what  it  is  that  Dickie  has 
done  ...  ?"  She  halted  on  the  last  word  and  gave  it  the 
value  of  an  interrogation. 

Her  husband  frowned.  "He  hasn't  done — anything,"  he 
said  with  evident  annoyance.  "The  truth  of  the  matter  is 
that  he  will  have  to  go  into  the  Bank.  I  must  speak  to 
Bell  about  it  when  I  go  in  to  Medborough." 

"Will  he  like  that?"  asked  Mrs.  Lynneker,  thinking  not  of 
the  bank-manager,  but  of  Dickie. 

"Entirely  his  own  fault,"  Mr.  Lynneker  said.  He  spoke 
impatiently  to  cover  any  hint  of  a  threatened  injustice.  He 
was  not  consciously  aware  that  he  was  making  the  most 
of  his  son's  failure  in  order  to  find  an  excuse  for  avoiding 
expense,  but  he  was  fretted  by  a  conflict  of  motives.  He 
disliked  that  sense  of  conflict,  and  he  wanted  immediately 
to  be  relieved  from  it.  "Entirely  his  own  fault,"  he  re- 
peated. "He  has  had  every  opportunity.  If  he  had  done 
as  well  as  Edward  and  Latimer,  I  should  have  sold  another 
of  the  bank  shares  to  send  him  to  Cambridge.  But  if  Bar- 
nard suggests  putting  him  on  the  Modern  Side  at  sixteen, 
it's  a  hopeless  case." 

"Poor  Dickie,"  sighed  Mrs.  Lynneker. 

"I  shall  keep  him  at  Oakstone  for  another  year,"  Mr. 
Lynneker  concluded ;  a  splendid  compromise  that  gave  him 
ease  from  the  harry  of  that  sub-conscious  conflict.  "He 
shall  have  another  year,"  he  elaborated,  "and  he  must  make 
the  best  of  his  opportunities.  If  he  doesn't  do  better  .  .  ." 

"Shall  you  tell  him?"  Mrs.  Lynneker  asked. 

"I  think  we  might  warn  him  that  it  will  be  inevitable 
for  him  to  go  into  the  Bank  unless  he  can  get  a  scholarship. 
I  shall  write  to  Barnard.  In  any  case  it  will  be  quite  use- 
less to  put  him  on  the  Modern  Side." 

Even  if  Dickie  was  doomed  to  work  in  a  Bank  at  Med- 
borough, he  should  have  the  opportunities  afforded  by  a 
sound  classical  education. 


OAKSTONE  27 


in 

Dr.  Barnard  took  a  humorous  view  of  Dickie's  case. 
His  doctor's  degree  was  in  Letters,  not  in  Divinity,  and  if 
he  had  not  found  it  advisable  for  the  sake  of  his  family 
to  accept  the  headmastership  of  Oakstone,  he  would  prob- 
ably have  developed  into  a  slightly  whimsical  historian. 

To  him,  the  school  was  an  amusing  experience ;  he  had 
never  thought  of  trying  to  understand  the  boys;  and  his 
treatment  of  Dickie  in  the  present  instance  was  amiably 
characteristic. 

He  asked  him  to  breakfast,  and  afterwards  gave  him  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  before  first  school. 

"I've  had  a  letter  from  your  father,  Lynneker,"  he  began. 

"Does  he  want  me  to  go  on  the  Modern  Side,  sir  ?"  Dickie 
asked  anxiously.  To  him,  also,  the  suggestion  had  conveyed 
a  hint  of  disgrace;  unless  you  were  cramming  for  Wool- 
wich or  Sandhurst,  you  were  curiously  out  of  it  on  the 
Modern  Side;  you  became  associated  with  the  thirty  or 
forty  day-boys  from  the  town,  who  definitely  ranked  as 
members  of  a  lower  social  grade. 

Dr.  Barnard  made  one  of  his  amusing  grimaces.  He 
was  clean-shaved,  and  had  a  mobile,  expressive  mouth. 

"No,  for  some  esoteric  reason,  that  he  hasn't  made  quite 
clear  to  me,  he  doesn't,"  Barnard  said.  "But  I  gather  that 
he  is  prepared  to  give  you  another  chance.  Another  year, 
he  says,  but  presumably  that  means  four  terms  from  now." 

Dickie  was  thinking  that  with  two  more  summer  terms 
before  him,  he  ought  certainly  to  get  his  first  eleven  cap 
before  he  left.  If  he  could  do  that,  he  wouldn't  mind  so 
much. 

"Oh!  good,  sir,"  he  mumbled. 

"Is  it  so  good?"  asked  Barnard  caustically.  "If  you  are 
going  to  stick  in  the  middle  of  the  Remove,  Lynneker,  we 
really  haven't  much  use  for  you,  here,  you  know.  If  you're 
going  into  training  for  the  business  of  a  mollusc,  better  go 
and  practise  by  yourself  on  some  lonely  rock." 


28  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

Dickie  looked  miserable.    "I  do  try,  sir,"  he  said. 

"To  be  a  limpet?" 

"No,  sir,  to  get  out  of  the  Remove." 

"You  will  have  to  try  harder,"  returned  Barnard  with 
a  whimsical  smile;  "and  go  on  trying.  Now,  cut  along,  or 
you'll  be  late  for  call-over." 

He  felt  that  he  had  done  all  that  was  possible  for  Lyn- 
neker  II,  but  by  way  of  taking  special  precautions, — Dickie 
was  in  his  own  house  and  represented  a  capitation  fee — 
he  said  a  few  words  to  Latimer  after  the  Lower  Sixth  was 
dismissed  that  morning. 

"You  might  see  if  you  can't  help  your  young  brother 
with  his  classical  work,  Lynneker,"  was  the  form  in  which 
this  further  display  of  interest  was  manifested.  "Have 
him  up  to  your  study  sometimes  during  preparation.  Your 
father  seems  anxious  about  him." 

Latimer  was  not  sorry  to  have  opportunity  for  rubbing 
in  his  authority.  As  a  prefect  he  was  able  to  enforce  due 
respect  from  Dickie  during  term;  but  in  the  holidays  the 
effort  to  maintain  his  dignity  had  been  altogether  too  irk- 
some since  that  declaration  of  independence  in  the  Rec- 
tory dining-room. 

"Here,  you're  to  come  up  to  my  study  for  prep.,"  he 
announced  to  Dickie  that  evening  after  tea.  "Barnard  says 
you're  a  rotten  little  shirker,  and  I've  got  to  keep  an  eye 
on  you." 

Dickie  looked  sulky.  He  had  no  faith  in  Latimer's  abil- 
ity to  elucidate  the  structural  difficulties  of  the  Latin  tongue. 
Wickford  was  more  patient  than  Latimer,  and  Wickford 
was  very  difficult  to  follow ;  he  took  so  much  for  granted. 

Dickie  had  taught  himself  mathematics.  He  had  discov- 
ered at  the  age  of  nine  that  the  "proof"  of  subtraction  by 
adding  subtrahend  and  difference  explained  the  mysterious 
business  of  "borrowing."  He  found  that  discovery  im- 
mensely satisfying;  and  when  he  was  tired  of  it  began  to 
seek  other  arithmetical  satisfactions.  He  found  so  many 
and  took  so  much  delight  in  them  that  when  he  came  to 
algebra,  it  presented  few  difficulties.  Here,  again,  the 


OAKSTONE  29 

"laws"  that  were  dogmatically  laid  down  with  no  reason 
given,  were  open  to  investigation ;  and  repaid  the  enquirer 
by  demonstrating  that  they  were  not  to  be  counted  among 
the  didactic  inventions  of  some  prehistoric  governess,  but 
were  natural  and  inevitable  consequences  of  certain  primary 
and  highly  credible  assumptions.  Algebra,  in  fact,  worked ; 
and  was  as  fascinating  as  any  other  puzzle  that  could  be 
engagingly  and  neatly  solved. 

Latin  had  offered  no  such  key  to  his  understanding. 
He  never  thought  of  it  as  having  once  been  the  spoken 
language  of  a  people.  He  had  learnt  it  by  rote ;  case,  tense 
and  syntax ;  and  no  one  had  ever  suggested  a  single  etymo- 
logical analogy  that  might  have  related  Latin  to  his  own 
English  speech.  Also,  he  had  made  no  enquiry  into  the 
historical  authenticity  of  Gaius  Julius  Caesar's  account  of 
his  Gallic  campaigns.  Dickie,  and  the  overwhelming  ma- 
jority of  his  schoolfellows,  considered  "Caesar,"  in  so  far 
as  they  had  considered  the  thing  at  all,  as  a  schoolbook 
written  by  some  long-forgotten  pedagogue  who  had  com- 
posed it  as  an  exercise  in  composition,  and  introduced  all 
the  tricks  and  catches  of  the  characteristic  examination 
paper. 

At  Oakstone  in  the  year  1891,  no  master  thought  it 
necessary  to  enter  into  a  reasonable  account  of  Caesar's 
strenuous  life  at  home  and  abroad.  No  humanising  paral- 
lels were  suggested,  such  as  that  between  the  crossing  of 
the  Rhine  in  58  B.  C.  and  the  march  by  Besangon  and 
Belfort  to  Alsace ;  and  the  invasion  of  the  same  country  by 
another  Caesar  only  five  years  before  Dickie  was  born. 
Besangon  remained  steadily  as  Vesentio,  some  stupidly  ro- 
mantic place  that  had  no  position  in  the  map  of  modern 
Europe ;  just  as  the  Helvetii  had  but  the  vaguest  connexion 
in  Dickie's  mind  with  the  inhabitants  of  Switzerland.  When 
modern  names  occurred,  such  as  the  Alps  or  the  Rhone, 
they  were  dismissed  as  having  been  inserted  by  the  long- 
forgotten  pedagogue,  for  the  sake  of  verisimilitude.  Roman 
history  was  not  taught  at  Oakstone  with  any  reference  to 
geography,  much  less  with  reference  to  its  influence  on  the 


30  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

present  condition  of  the  stultified  boys  who  wrestled  with 
Caesar  as  with  an  exponent  of  syntax,  learning  Latin  gram- 
mar from  history,  and  entirely  ignorant  of  the  fact  that 
they  might  have  learnt  more  history  from  a  study  of  their 
own  tongue.  But  "English  subjects"  had,  also,  been  for- 
malised into  a  meaningless  dogma  at  Oakstone;  a  school 
that  was  fully  representative  of  its  class  at  that  period  of 
educational  development. 

And  Latimer,  true  exponent  that  he  was  of  the  method 
that  had  produced  him,  was  quite  unable  to  provide  any 
stimulus  that  should  set  his  younger  brother  to  the  inves- 
tigation of  new  and  fascinating  puzzles, — puzzles  that  had 
a  solution  no  less  than  those  of  algebra.  Poor  Dickie,  bun- 
gling subject  and  object  under  the  disguises  of  nominative 
and  accusative ;  and  trying  to  render  every  phrase  by  some 
absolute  English  equivalent,  as  if  Caesar  had  been  first  trans- 
lated into  Latin  and  it  was  essential  to  rediscover  the  pre- 
cise terms  of  the  English  original ;  poor  obfuscated  Dickie 
was  forced  to  submit  with  the  patience  of  a  circus  horse 
to  Latimer's  dogmatic  and  arbitrary  expoundings  of  his 
author. 

"Great  Scott,  haven't  you  learnt  yet  that  'do'  governs 
the  dative?"  was  Latimer's  method  of  instruction  copied 
from  the  methods  of  his  own  preceptors;  and  he  never 
paused,  himself,  to  consider  the  meaning  of  the  case-name, 
nor  condescended  to  expound  by  an  English  analogy  that 
you  give  something  to  somebody.  When  forced  to  a  fur- 
ther elaboration  by  a  failure  of  expletive,  his  pedantic 
explanation  had  reference  to  "the  remoter  object";  which 
to  Dickie's  thoroughly  confused  mind  only  conveyed  the 
idea  of  a  person  standing  rather  further  away.  All  those 
arbitrary  grammatical  terms  had  to  be  learnt  by  heart  as 
one  might  learn  any  other  jargon,  merely  for  the  sake  of 
getting  out  of  the  Remove,  and  being  saved  in  the  process 
from  the  social  indignity  of  going  on  the  "Modern  Side." 

Considerable  pertinacity  and  an  efficient  memory,  even 
for  meaningless  formulae,  saved  Dickie  from  immediate 
disgrace.  He  learnt  the  rules  by  sheer  force  of  application, 


OAKSTONE  31 

a  system  that  left  him  liable  to  make  the  most  childish 
blunders.  And  that  liability  further  retarded  him,  for 
Elliott,  who  took  the  lower  fifth,  was  highly  irascible,  and 
fear  of  his  flaming  denunciations  filled  Dickie  with  a  sullen 
opposition  that  had  the  effect  of  making  him  forget  the 
farrago  he  had  so  patiently  acquired. 

The  only  really  bright  spot  that  compensated  him  for 
all  the  harassments  of  that  summer  term,  was  the  fact 
that  he  somewhat  precociously  got  his  first-eleven  colours 
five  days  before  the  holidays  by  going  in  seventh  wicket  and 
making  53  not  out,  against  a  particularly  strong  team,  in 
the  "Old  Boys"  match. 


IV 

It  was  Elliott  who  by  a  lucky  fluke  found  for  Dickie's  ob- 
stinate stupidity,  a  more  satisfying  explanation  than  Wick- 
ford's  "gone  stale," — a  phrase  that  dealt  only  with  effects. 

Elliott  had  been  in  a  highly  inflammable  condition  all 
the  morning,  and  Livy — edited  for  the  use  of  schools,  with 
notes — had  finally  been  flung  at  Dickie's  head.  The  book 
had  been  thrown  violently  in  a  spurt  of  furious  temper,  but 
had  immediately  opened  to  display  a  tremendous  flutter  of 
white  wings,  had  soared  upwards  in  an  unexpected  curve 
and  dropped  accurately  but  tamely  at  Dickie's  feet. 

He  picked  the  book  up  and  politely  returned  it.  The 
rest  of  the  form  stiffened  and  watched  eagerly.  They 
had  seen  a  boy  knocked  down  for  less. 

But  either  Elliott's  passion  had  been  expended  by  its 
physical  expression,  or  he  had  realised  that  a  further  dis- 
play might  make  him  appear  ridiculously  anxious  to  re- 
trieve his  failure.  He  accepted  the  Livy  quietly;  leaned 
forward  in  his  chair,  and  stared  over  his  desk  at  the  ap- 
parently submissive  Dickie. 

"Quite  Daedalian,  eh,  Lynneker?"  he  said  quietly. 

"Yes,  sir,"  returned  Dickie. 

"The  allusion  is  no  doubt  perfectly  clear  to  you?" 


32  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

Dickie  considered  a  moment,  his  thought  confused  by 
some  association  with  Pygmalion — they  pronounced  their 
Latin  at  Oakstone,  in  those  days,  as  if  it  were  an  English 
dialect,  with  endless  misunderstandings  about  the  "length" 
of  the  vowels. 

"You've  heard  of  Daedalus,  I  presume?"  Elliott  con- 
tinued with  an  increasingly  ironic  inflexion. 

Dickie  knew  that  he  was  done,  now.  A  black  screen 
had  come  between  him  and  all  his  tediously  memorised 
knowledge.  It  had  been  temporarily  obliterated  and  no 
fierce  concentration  of  effort,  mental  or  physical — he  did, 
indeed,  resort  at  times  to  the  drastic  measure  of  beating 
his  head  with  his  fists — would  raise  the  horrid  curtain  that 
was  interposed  between  him  and  his  little  docket  of  facts. 
Presently,  perhaps  when  he  had  his  head  down  in  the 
"scrum,"  a  wonderful  illumination  would  come  to  him. 
The  screen  would  fade  and  he  would  be  able  to  recall 
rules  of  syntax,  irregular  verbs,  classical  allusions,  and 
even  fragments  of  the  text  of  Livy  or  Cicero,  with  a  de- 
lightful ease  and  clearness. 

"Yes,  sir,  I've  heard  of  him;  lots  of  times,  I  suppose," 
he  said  valiantly,  and  he  lifted  his  head  and  looked  at  his 
form-master  with  an  expression  of  tired  patience.  "But 
when  I'm  asked  suddenly,  my  mind  simply  goes  blank.  I 
expect  I'm  some  kind  of  idiot,  sir,  really." 

"Oh!  you're  several  kinds  of  idiot,  Lynneker,"  Elliott 
returned,  "and  unhappily  the  most  obvious  kind  is  particu- 
larly exasperating.  Come,  now,  doesn't  the  name  of  Daeda- 
lus convey  any  sort  of  suggestion  to  your  mind?  Taken 
in  conjunction  with  the  recent  flight  of  Livy?" 

Dickie  was  patently  trying  hard;  so  patently  that  Elliott 
was  interested. 

"I  suppose  you've  never  taken  any  interest  in  these  fa- 
bles?" he  asked. 

"I'm  afraid  I  haven't,  sir." 

"Don't  you  want  to  know  them?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't,  sir." 

"Why  not,  Lynneker?" 


OAKSTONE  33 

"It  all  seems  rather  useless  sort  of  tosh,  sii !"  Dickie 
said. 

Elliott,  in  an  uncharacteristic  mood  of  placidity,  found 
himself  facing,  a  question  that  was  too  difficult  for  him; 
and  to  give  himself  a  little  time  turned  to  the  brilliant  Hud- 
son, who  was  at  the  head  of  the  lower  fifth,  that  Christmas 
term. 

"Can  you  tell  us  anything  about  Daedalus,  Hudson?"  he 
asked. 

Hudson  was  facile.  When  he  had  briefly  detailed  the 
story  of  the  flight  into  Sicily  and  the  death  of  Icarus,  he 
was  prepared  to  enter  into  what  was  evidently  to  him  the 
more  interesting  question  of  Daedalus's  claim  to  fame  as 
an  architect  and  sculptor,  more  particularly  with  reference 
to  a  mention  of  him  in  the  Iliad. 

Elliott  interrupted  him.  "Thank  you,  Hudson,"  he  said. 
"We'll  have  your  lecture  some  other  time.  But  I  should 
just  like  to  ask  you,  now,  whether  all  this  seems  rather 
useless  sort  of  tosh  to  you?" 

"No,  sir."  Hudson  smiled  the  superior  smile  of  the  well- 
informed. 

"And  how  would  you  define  your  use  for  it  ?"  Elliott  con- 
tinued. 

"Well,  it's  knowledge,  sir,"  replied  Hudson. 

"And  your  use  for  knowledge  is  what?" 

Hudson  began  to  suspect  a  trap.  "Isn't  it  what  we  come 
here  to  learn,  sir?"  he  returned,  guardedly. 

Elliott  realised  that  that  enquiry  could  not  expediently 
be  prosecuted  further.  He  turned  back  to  Dickie. 

"Haven't  you  any  desire  to  shine  as  shines  the  brilliant 
Hudson,  Lynneker?"  he  asked. 

Dickie  looked  over  his  shoulder  at  the  paragon,  sitting 
self-consciously  elate  at  his  desk. 

"Not  particularly,  sir,"  he  said ;  and  a  pleased  titter  from 
the  rest  of  the  form  marked  the  fact  that  the  precocious 
Hudson  was  too  clever  to  be  popular. 

That  titter,  however,  closed  the  episode.  Elliott  was  re- 
minded that  his  plunge  into  boy-psychology  was  become 


34  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

a  pleasant  excuse  for  wasting  time,  and  that  Livy  was 
still  untranslated. 

"Perhaps  it  may  encourage  your  taste  for  classical  knowl- 
edge, Lynneker,"  he  said,  "if  you  were  to  read  up  all  you 
can  find  about  Daedalus  and  write  me  an  essay  on  him  of, 
say,  five  hundred  words.  Try  it ;  and  bring  me  what  you've 
done  on  Saturday  morning,  will  you?  Now,  Atcherley, 
when  you've  done  smiling,  will  you  go  on;  page  7,  line 
22.  .  .  ." 

But  when  he  was  talking  to  Wickford  that  evening,  El- 
liott found  his  explanation. 

"The  attitude  of  that  fellow  Lynneker,  you  know,  rather 
intrigues  me,"  he  said.  "He  isn't  interested  in  classics  sim- 
ply because  he  doesn't  get  anything  out  of  them.  And  he 
doesn't  seem  to  care  a  damn  for  knowledge  for  its  own 
sake.  It's  no  satisfaction  to  Lynneker  just  to  know.  Now 
that  little  prig,  Hudson,  preens  himself  all  over  with  the 
mere  pride  of  being  an  authority." 

"Hudson  ought  to  do  something  for  the  school,"  Wick- 
ford  replied,  effectually  quenching  Elliott's  enthusiasm. 
"Get  a  senior  scholarship,  or  something.  Barnard  was 
saying,  the  other  day  .  .  ." 

And  unfortunately  for  Dickie,  Elliott  made  no  further 
application  of  his  one  bright  discovery. 

The  essay  on  Daedalus  was  delivered  punctually  on  Sat- 
urday morning.  When  it  was  a  matter  of  mere  applica- 
tion, Dickie  was  never  at  fault. 


And  despite  his  marked  tendency  to  blunder  and  all  his 
apparent  stupidities,  he  had  succeeded  in  crawling  up  to 
the  third  place  in  his  form  order  by  the  end  of  his  next 
summer  term.  The  examinations  helped  him  wonderfully. 
Sitting  at  a  desk,  with  boys  from  the  lower  school  on 
either  side  of  him — an  arrangement  that  effectually  antici- 
pated any  chance  of  copying — and  with  a  printed  set  of 


OAKSTONE  35 

questions  to  answer,  Dickie  was  at  his  best.  That  horri- 
ble screen  never  fell  on  those  occasions.  The  Cambridge 
examiner  reported  that  his  Latin  and  Greek  prose  and  verse 
were  uninspired  by  any  feeling  for  the  language,  but  that 
he  was  sound,  very  sound ;  and  followed  that  opinion  by 
one  of  surprise  that  a  boy  of  Lynneker's  age  (he  was  seven- 
teen then)  and  capacity  should  be  still  in  so  low  a  form; 
the  lowest  form,  indeed,  that  the  Cambridge  don  had  to 
examine. 

Elliott  curled  his  handsome  moustache  and  scowled  a 
little  when  that  report  was  handed  on  to  him.  He  was  in- 
clined to  believe,  now,  that  Lynneker  had  in  some  inexplica- 
ble way  been  shirking  for  the  past  two  years.  If  he  could 
do  so  well  in  examinations,  he  could  have  done  better  in 
class,  was  Elliott's  argument;  and  Dickie  was  arbitrarily 
included  thereafter  in  the  category  of  boys  who  "wouldn't 
try." 

Nevertheless,  Dickie  was  the  success  of  Speech  Day 
that  year.  He  had  only  won  the  despised  mathematical 
prize,  and  when  Lord  Bingley  (very  weary  and  bored,  but 
his  wife  was  in  bed  with  "Russian"  influenza)  automatically 
handed  over  the  solid,  leather-bound,  gold-stamped  edition 
of  "The  Wealth  of  Nations,"  with  his  appropriate,  but 
quite  inaudible  mumble,  some  of  the  visitors  were  quite 
unable  to  account  for  the  unprecedented  howl  of  ovation 
that  greeted  the  stumbling  Dickie. 

It  was  the  etiquette  at  Oakstone  for  the  school  to  make 
no  sound  during  the  announcement  of  the  prize-winners' 
names,  nor  during  the  candidate's  trying  ascent  of  the  plat- 
form steps.  Until  the  orthodox  mumble  (Lady  Bingley 
whispered)  was  done  and  the  prize  actually  delivered,  the 
school  remained  patiently  silent,  and  after  the  first  two 
or  three  occasions,  ignorant  visitors  learnt  to  restrain  their 
nervous,  perfunctory  clapping  until  the  right  moment. 

And  it  was  just  that  class  of  visitors  who  were  startled 
into  asking  what  that  square-looking  boy  with  the  hand- 
some hair  had  done,  when,  as  Dickie  received  his  Adam 
Smith,  a  sudden  roar  shook  the  big  school-room  and  sent 


36  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

the  hands  of  mothers,  aunts  and  sisters  to  their  shocked 
ears;  while  their  faces  were  contorted  by  the  deprecating 
smiles  that  marked  "their  compromise  between  physical 
agony  and  a  sense  of  the  occasion.  That  class  of  visitors 
had  not  heard  that  Dickie  had  made  117  not  out  in  the 
first  innings  of  the  "Old  Boys'  "  Match  yesterday  afternoon ; 
and  many  of  them  would  have  failed  to  appreciate  the 
achievement  as  an  excuse  for  so  outrageous  a  clamour.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Lynneker,  sitting  with  his  stick  between  his  knees 
and  his  black  wide-awake  hung  on  the  ivory  handle,  banged 
away  furiously  and  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  the  tears 
in  his  eyes.  He  was  momentarily  oblivious  of  the  five  mem- 
bers of  his  family  clustered  about  him.  His  one  black 
sheep  was  miraculously  changed  into  an  ewe  lamb,  the 
youngest  and  just  then,  as  it  seemed,  the  most  precious 
of  his  flock.  But  he  concealed  his  emotion  as  an  Univer- 
sity man  should  in  the  presence  of  his  grown  sons,  when 
Dickie  came  and  modestly  plumped  his  heavy  brown  book 
into  his  mother's  lap. 

Mr.  Lynneker 's  "dear  boy"  was  a  sotto-voce  comment, 
only  heard  by  his  wife  who,  with  Adela,  was  examining 
the  prize  itself,  as  if  the  real  glory  lay  in  this  substantial 
recognition;  with  its  engraved  plate  of  the  school-arms, 
inside  the  cover,  slightly  disfigured  by  Dr.  Barnard's  too 
scholarly  handwriting. 

Edward  in  his  all-round  collar,  and  wearing  the  air  of 
a  most  aristocratic  and  elegant  deacon,  smoothed  his  neat 
dark  moustache,  and  preserved  his  dignity  by  a  smile  of 
approving  condescension.  But  Latimer,  not  quite  above 
the  suspicion  of  failure  as  an  undergraduate  of  the  slightly 
contemptible  Downing,  came  out  with  a  "good  for  you, 
young  Dickie,"  and  then  fearing  that  he  had,  if  anything, 
overdone  it,  went  on :  "We  all  prayed  that  you  wouldn't 
stumble  up  the  steps,  and  lump  down  on  old  Bingley." 

Every  one  of  the  six  was  more  self-conscious  than  the 
recipient  of  honour  himself.  H?s  blushing  had  been  done 
before  he  reached  this  eddy  of  family  life. 

"The  shouting  wasn't  for  this  bally  thing,"  he  explained. 


OAKSTONE  37 

"It  was  for  my  century  yesterday.  There's  young  Hudson 
going1  up  again ;  supposed  to  be  the  most  brilliant  chap  the 
school's  ever  turned  out.  He's  only  sixteen,  now,  and 
head  of  the  upper  fifth  this  term.  Well,  all  I  mean  is  that 
they  don't  shout  for  him  much,  although  he's  supposed  to  be 
a  credit  to  the  place.  You  remember  him,  of  course,  Lati- 
mer?" 

"Rather,"  agreed  Latimer,  glad  to  engage  in  any  topic 
other  than  Dickie's  success.  "Bright  little  kid  in  Wick- 
ford's  house." 

"I  believe  he  came  the  term  after  I  left,"  put  in  Ed- 
ward, leaning  forward. 

"He's  come  on  tremendously  the  last  year,"  explained 
Dickie.  "But  he's  a  bit  too  cocky  to  be  popular.  Puts  on 
a  lot  of  smug  side,  you  know,  as  if  he  knew  everything 
and  the  answer  to  it.  He's  pretty  good,  though.  Old 
Barnyard's  fearfully  keen  on  him.  They're  trying  to  coach 
him  for  a  senior  school  at  Trinity." 


VI 

The  contemplation  of  young  Hudson's  brilliant  abilities 
was  not  permitted  to  damp  Mr.  Lynneker's  emotional  pleas- 
ure in  his  son's  success.  The  sunlight  that  streamed  in 
solid  prisms  of  golden  dust  through  the  high,  narrow  win- 
dow of  the  big  school-room,  was  shining  that  day  for  the 
honour  and  glory  of  the  new  generation  of  Lynneker.  And 
when  Dickie's  head,  and  particularly  the  strong  curves  of 
his  unmanageable  hair,  was  thrown  into  massive  relief  by 
the  moving  slant  of  that  all  too  palpable  beam,  his  father 
had  a  wonderful  sense  that  it  was  this  youngest  child  of 
his  who  was  to  reveal  the  ultimate  meaning  of  a  life  that 
must  in  some  ways  be  counted  a  failure.  Since  he  had 
married  and  left  the  Cathedral  to  accept  the  living  of  Hal- 
ton — with  £800  a  year,  then,  but  now  depreciated  to  a 
doubtful  £650 — Mr.  Lynneker  had  dropped  out  of  the  list 
of  those  marked  for  possible  preferment. 


38  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

But  this  was  one  of  the  high  emotional  days  when  his 
own  relative  failure  was  forgotten  in  his  ambitions  for 
his  children.  Edward  and  Latimer  had  both  been  good 
boys,  but  they  had  always  been  stamped  with  the  character- 
istic family  mediocrity.  A  Canon's  stall  was  the  probable 
limit  of  their  ascension  among  church  dignitaries.  One  of 
them  would  almost  certainly  get  the  family  living  of  Cul- 
ver. Without  doubt  both  Edward  and  Latimer  would  be  a 
credit  to  the  family.  .  .  . 

The  vision  of  Dickie  that  had  come  at  that  emotional 
moment  had  been  of  quite  other  achievement  and  Mr.  Lyn- 
neker  could  not  define  it  even  in  his  own  thought.  This 
ugly  duckling  of  his  had  justified  himself  so  unexpectedly ; 
had  been  so  suddenly  presented  in  the  light  of  hero.  Neither 
of  his  more  scholarly  brothers  had  ever  evoked  so  spon- 
taneous a  burst  of  cheering.  .  .  . 

And  on  the  field  that  afternoon,  Mr.  Lynneker  left  the 
women  of  his  family  under  the  protection  of  Mrs.  Bar- 
nard, and  wandered  off  to  a  quiet  bench  which  was  pre- 
cipitately abandoned  by  three  small  boys  at  the  threat  of 
his  approach.  He  sat  there,  a  little  black  thoughtful  figure 
watching  the  game  with  keen  interest;  a  slightly  old-fash- 
ioned, aristocratic  little  man  in  a  clerical  frock-coat,  with 
small,  neat  shoes  and  a  collar  and  tidy  black  bow  that 
did  not  too  definitely  mark  him  as  a  parson.  He  rested 
his  hands  on  the  ivory  handle  of  his  stick,  and  kept  his 
attention  on  the  game  while  some  remote  orchestration  of 
his  thoughts  charmed  his  imagination  to  pleasant  rhapso- 
dies. .  .  . 

Dickie  was  to  be  the  pride  of  the  Lynnekers  ...  a  great 
statesman,  perhaps,  who  would  stand  for  all  that  was  solid 
and  enduring  in  the  life  of  England  ...  a  greater  premier 
than  Salisbury;  a  man  who  would  set  right  all  that  had 
been  destroyed  by  that  arch-villain  Gladstone.  .  .  . 

That  was,  indeed,  a  wonderful  afternoon;  for  when  the 
Old  Boys'  innings  was  finished,  Dickie  in  his  pads  and 
carrying  his  bat,  came  over,  as  if  drawn  by  some  sympathy 
of  thought,  to  that  lonely  bench  and  sat  down  by  his  father's 


OAKSTONE  39 

side.  Neither  Edward  nor  Latimer  would  have  done  that. 
They  were  so  much  at  their  ease  among  the  crowd.  They 
had  that  Lynneker  fascination  of  manner,  and  loved  to 
please  and  be  gracious  to  acquaintances,  rather  than  waste 
their  charm  on  their  own  people. 

"We  ought  to  beat  them,  eh  ?"  Mr.  Lynneker  asked,  turn- 
ing a  trifle  desperately  to  the  subject  of  the  match. 

"We've  beaten  'em  on  the  first  innings,  you  know,"  Dickie 
explained.  "There  won't  be  time  to  play  another  innings 
apiece.  The  rest'll  be  footle,  chiefly.  I  expect  I  shall 
get  another  smack,  if  Dido  and  Bing  don't  get  set.  We 
draw  at  half-past  five." 

"I  wish  we'd  been  here  yesterday  to  see  our  boy  batting," 
Mr.  Lynneker  commented. 

"Rather!  Yes,  I  wish  you  had.  It  wasn't  a  bad  in- 
nings," returned  Dickie  and  added,  "I  say,  pater,  why  are 
you  sitting  out  here  all  alone?" 

"To  watch  the  match,"  his  father  said.  "The  Barnards 
distracted  one's  attention."  And  then  he  rested  one  grey- 
gloved  hand  on  Dickie's  arm  and  went  on.  "I  think  we 
shall  have  to  stay  on  for  another  year,  eh?  and  see  what 
we  can  do  about  a  scholarship?" 

"Oh!  good!"  murmured  Dickie.  "Will  it  be  all  right, 
pater?  I  mean  not  too  big  an  expense?  I  believe,  you 
know,  it  might  be  possible  for  me  to  get  a  mathematical 
scholarship.  I'd  have  a  good  try,  anyway.  It's  at  classics 
that  I'm  such  an  awful  duffer.  I  needn't  actually  go  on 
the  Modern  Side,  you  know.  Just  do  some  special  coach- 
ing with  Armstrong." 

"I  think  it  might  be  managed,"  Mr.  Lynneker  said 
quietly;  and  then  Bing  unexpectedly  spooned  a  "sitter" 
to  point. 

"It's  awfully  good  of  you,  pater,"  Dickie  said,  getting  to 
his  feet.  He  paused  a  moment  and  swung  his  bat  reflec- 
tively. "I  do  know  I'm  being  a  beastly  expense,  but  I've 
tried  jolly  hard." 

Mr.  Lynneker's  eyes  were  brimming  again. 

"Dear  boy,  your  mother  and  I  have  been  so  proud  of 


40  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

you,"  he  said,  looking  out  steadily  at  the  blurred  elms  on 
the  far  side  of  the  field 

"It's  awfully  ripping  of  you  to  let  me  stay  on,"  was  all 
Dickie  could  find  to  say.  "I  must  go,"  he  added.  "I'll 
come  back  here  when  I'm  out." 

But  he  had  no  further  opportunity  for  expressing  all 
that  he  knew  he  had  failed  to  convey,  for  he  stayed  in  till 
stumps  were  drawn,  and  only  time  prevented  him  from 
making  a  school-record  by  doing  the  "double  century 
trick."  The  bowlers  were  sympathetically  "tossing  them  up" 
for  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour  in  order  to  give  him  the 
opportunity ;  and  they  would  have  played  on  for  another  ten 
minutes  if  the  arbitrary  arrangements  of  the  railway  com- 
pany had  not  enforced  the  absence  of  half  the  field. 


VII 

Mr.  Lynneker's  day  ended  rather  drearily  after  all  that 
emotion. 

He  made  his  announcement  concerning  his  changed  plans 
for  Dickie  in  the  train  going  home.  He  had  been  so  wrapt 
in  his  dreams  that  he  had  forgotten  his  family  might  not 
have  been  equally  affected. 

"Oh!  father!  can  you  afford  it?"  Eleanor  asked.  "It 
will  be  a  great  expense  with  Edward  at  home  and  Lati- 
mer  at  Cambridge." 

"I  expect  I  could  get  a  curacy,  now,"  put  in  Edward, 
generously,  from  his  corner.  "One  of  the  curates  at  St. 
Peter's  is  only  in  deacon's  orders." 

"Quite  unnecessary,"  Mr.  Lynneker  said,  and  looking  at 
his  wife,  he  understood  that  he  had  confirmed  her  yet  again 
in  her  unspoken  opinion  that  he  exaggerated  his  money  dif- 
ficulties. 

And  that  brought  a  chill  which  effectually  froze  his 
dreams.  He  was  face  to  face  once  more  with  that  ter- 
rible problem  of  ways  and  means.  He  had  been  too  gen- 
erous that  afternoon,  and  his  wife's  look  of  slightly 


OAKSTONE  41 

stubborn  resignation  was  a  reminder  that  he  had  been  un- 
diplomatic in  the  statement  of  his  intentions. 

It  was  a  saddening  reflection  that  this  perpetual  mis- 
understanding with  regard  to  money  should  have  interfered 
with  the  joy  they  should  have  shared  in  their  boy's  success. 

But  the  days  when  they  could  share  any  emotion  what- 
ever seemed  hopelessly  past. 

"I'm  very  glad  for  Dickie's  sake/'  Mrs.  Lynneker  said. 

"If  you  really  think  you  can  afford  it,"  repeated  Eleanor 
anxiously. 

"Didn't  the  little  boy  look  a  duck?"  was  Adela's  only 
contribution  to  the  conversation. 


Ill 

LAISSEZ   FAIRE 


THE  village  of  Halton  lies  among  the  agricultural  pla- 
cidities of  the  Nene  Valley.  The  church,  splendidly 
dominant,  stands  on  the  upper  slope  of  the  hill  that  mounts 
gently  through  the  unenclosed  lands  to  the  north  and  dies 
into  the  level  of  the  Common.  Up  there  the  earth  is  open 
to  broad  horizons,  and  the  Common  is  only  separated 
from  the  edge  of  the  Fens  by  a  deep  belt  of  wood  known 
as  the  Hanglands. 

The  village  turns  its  back  upon  those  open  spaces,  and 
the  last  of  the  sporadic  cottages  that  dares  the  bleak  winds 
on  that  side,  is  half  a  mile  from  the  crest  of  the  slope. 
The  site  of  Halton  was  chosen  by  Romans  who  knew  their 
business,  and  the  marks  of  their  occupation  remain  to  this 
day.  On  the  hill  massive  chunks  of  masonry, — built  of  flat 
stone  laid  in  "herring-bone"  courses  and  set  in  cement  that 
is  hard  as  the  stone  itself, — appear  as  uneven  masses  of  rock 
in  the  high  retaining  wall  of  the  Rectory  garden.  Accord- 
ing to  Mr.  Lynneker  those  relics  marked  the  ruins  of  the 
Praetor's  house;  for  Halton  had  been  an  administrative 
centre  in  the  second  century. 

And  doubtless  there  had  been  good  material  for  founda- 
tions in  what  was  later  the  church-yard  (every  grave  dug 
in  a  certain  area  yielded  coins  or  fragments  of  tessellated 
pavement),  such  material  as  had  decided  the  converted 
daughter  of  one  of  the  Mercian  Kings  to  plant  her  con- 
vent on  that  commanding  spot.  Her  building  had  been  com- 
paratively evanescent,  and  hardly  a  trace  remained  of  the 

42 


LAISSEZ  FAIRE  43 

Saxons  who  had  followed  her.  But  when  the  Normans 
took  up  their  claim  to  the  right  of  supersession,  they  had 
built  to  leave  a  permanent  monument ;  and  the  square  tower 
of  Halton  church — capped  three  centuries  later  by  a  parapet 
and  a  spire — was  a  landmark  that  could  be  seen  for  miles 
down  the  river  valley. 

That  big,  cruciform  church,  spreading  broad  wings  of 
nave  and  chancel  on  either  side  of  its  central  tower,  was 
warden  of  the  whole  parish.  The  stranger  who  drove  out 
from  Medborough  got  his  first  distant  signal  of  the  village  by 
the  sight  of  the  tower  and  spire  rising  behind  the  big  elms 
in  the  Rectory  garden.  He  became  aware,  then,  of  a  vigi- 
lant sentry,  typified,  a  little  profanely  perhaps,  by  the  full- 
breasted  cock  of  the  wind-vane,  a  bird  that  still  seemed  to 
boast  too  proudly  of  the  part  it  had  played  in  the  tragedy 
of  St.  Peter. 

But  that  distant  view  was  obliterated  when  the  stranger 
had  come  down  the  sharp  hill  into  the  main  street,  and 
could  look  up  at  the  whole  white  mass  of  the  guardian 
structure,  wide-armed,  secure  and  immensely  confident.  It 
had  not  the  beauty  of  much  of  the  Nene  Valley  architec- 
ture, nor  was  it  a  fine  example  of  any  style  (although  its 
Norman  work  was  splendidly  characteristic),  but  it  gained 
by  its  differences.  It  was  so  unlike  the  typical  village 
church  in  its  broad-browed  decision.  No  crockets  fretted 
the  outline  of  its  spire,  and  the  pinnacles  that  had  plainly 
been  designed  for  the  corners  of  the  tower  had  never 
been  built;  the  majority  of  the  buttresses  on  the  south 
side  had  a  very  flat  projection,  and  almost  the  only  enrich- 
ments of  surface — the  billets,  nail-heads  and  scales  of  the 
Norman  work — were  so  shallow  that  they  were  invisible 
from  the  main  street.  Yet  it  defied  the  aesthetic  criticism 
of  the  archaeologist  by  its  plain  strength.  It  wore  the  air 
of  a  clean-shaven  prelate,  dressed  in  a  white  cassock. 

The  Rectory  standing  in  its  three-acre  garden  was  only 
a  fief  of  that  solemn,  resolute  church. 

Dickie  had  grown  up  in  its  company  and  accepted  its 
watch  over  the  Rectory  garden  as  one  of  the  commonplaces 


44  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

of  life.  On  week-days  its  uses  for  him  were  to  tell  the 
time  and  the  direction  of  the  wind;  and  its  vane  lifted  120 
feet  into  the  air  was  fairly  accurate,  if  its  clock  was  oc- 
casionally liable  to  error,  an  apparent  frailty  that  was  due 
to  the  eccentricities  of  Gann,  the  sexton  and  Rector's 
church-warden.  Indeed,  the  church's  only  interference  with 
the  normal  holiday  life  of  the  young  Lynnekers  was  due 
to  the  untimely  ringing  of  the  bells  when  the  ringers  un- 
expectedly bethought  themselves  "to  practise."  There  were 
six  magnificent  bells  hung  in  that  solid  tower,  and  how- 
ever delightful  the  sound  of  them  at  Allerton,  a  mile  and 
a  half  away  across  the  river,  they  were  relentlessly  over- 
powering in  their  crashing  attack  upon  such  near  neigh- 
bours as  the  Lynnekers. 

On  winter  evenings,  with  the  ground  floor  shutters  fas- 
tened and  the  curtains  drawn,  the  din  was  reasonably  soft- 
ened; but  Mrs.  Lynneker  hated  the  bells  even  then.  She 
had  an  emotional  objection  to  the  sound  of  the  peal;  she 
found  them  "saddening,"  and  hers  was  a  temperament  that 
never  sought  sadness.  Her  two  elder  sons  shared  her  sen- 
timental dislike  to  what  Latimer  called  that  "infernal  prac- 
tising for  Christmas" ;  and  it  was  characteristic  of  the  fam- 
ily that  until  Adela  made  the  point  good,  none  of  them 
had  understood  that  the  ringers  "practised"  out  of  sheer 
exuberance  of  spirit  during  any  dark  evenings.  Even  after 
Adela  had  demonstrated  her  argument  by  abundant  in- 
stance, Mrs.  Lynneker  would  exclaim,  "Oh !  surely  they're 
not  going  to  practise  for  Christmas!"  when  the  solitary 
tolling  of  the  tenor  bell  on  some  still  February  night  pro- 
claimed the  arrival  of  an  impatient  first-comer  in  the  bel- 
fry, calling  to  the  attention  of  his  fellow-ringers. 

Adela  followed  her  father  in  her  professed  liking  for 
the  bells.  She,  too,  had  dreams  and  reserves  unguessed  by 
the  rest  of  the  family. 

To  Dickie,  they  were  just  "bells,"  during  his  adolescence. 
He  had  climbed  all  over  the  cradle  staging  before  he  was 
ten,  and  had  hung  manfully  on  to  the  "lamb's  tail"  of  the 
rope  and  been  carried  off  his  feet  in  his  first  attempts  to 


LAISSEZ  FAIRE  45 

join  the  ringers.  He  had  not,  however,  tried  to  decipher 
the  old  inscriptions,  because  they  were  in  Latin  and  too 
painfully  reminiscent  of  Wickford  and  the  Remove. 


ii 

But  all  the  irk  of  that  perpetual  grind  to  memorise  Latin 
syntax,  was  taken  from  him  in  the  summer  holidays  fol- 
lowing the  speech-day  ovation. 

Latimer  guessed  that  something  was  "up"  at  breakfast. 
He  had  been  late  for  prayers,  it  is  true,  but  that  alone  was 
not  enough  to  account  for  his  father's  irritability  and  his 
mother's  expression  of  patient  suffering.  Edward  and 
Adela  were  staying  at  Culver  with  their  uncle,  and  lacking 
any  other  confidant,  Latimer  suggested  to  Dickie  that  he 
should  come  out  into  the  garden  as  soon  as  their  father 
had  gathered  up  his  unopened  letters  and  retired  to  the  se- 
crecy of  his  study. 

It  was  a  wonderful  morning  in  early  September.  The 
dew  still  lay  on  the  grass  like  hoar  frost,  and  the  yew 
hedge,  the  privet,  the  standard  roses  and  every  other  avail- 
able site  was  enriched  with  wheels  of  web  that  might  have 
been  spun  of  delicate  white  wool.  There  was  not  a  breath 
of  wind,  but  the  air  was  riotous  with  sound,  with  the  clam- 
our of  rooks,  the  twitter  of  innumerable  small  birds,  the 
clatter  of  a  reaper  in  the  cornfield  that  adjoined  the  garden, 
and  the  distant  tinkle  of  the  blacksmith's  shop  down  the 
village  came  in  now  and  again  as  a  recognisable  obligato 
to  the  prominent  symphony. 

"Going  to  be  jolly  hot,"  remarked  Dickie,  sniffing  the 
sharp,  cold  scents  of  the  morning. 

"Rather.  We  ought  to  do  something,"  replied  Latimer. 
He  had  lighted  his  pipe  and  was  savouring  the  aroma  of 
his  tobacco.  "Pity  to  waste  a  day  like  this  mucking  about 
the  garden,"  he  added. 

"Might  go  fishing,"  suggested  Dickie,  and  watched  the 
little  puffs  of  Latimer's  smoke  mounting  compactly  in  neat 


46  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

lavender  clouds  and  wreaths.  "Blow  some  on  the  rose 
bushes,"  he  continued.  "The  green  fly's  perfectly  wicked 
this  year." 

Latimer  made  a  few  experiments  in  fumigation  and 
then  desisted  on  the  ground  that  it  spoilt  the  enjoyment 
of  his  pipe,  the  after-breakfast  pipe,  the  best  smoke  of 
the  day.  "I'll  come,"  he  said,  taking  up  the  interrupted 
conversation.  "We'll  go  down  to  the  backwater  behind 
Allerton  lock.  We  might  take  sandwiches,  or  something, 
for  lunch." 

"Good,"  was  Dickie's  comment.  He  was  walking  along 
the  edge  of  the  back  lawn,  kicking  up  tiny  fountains  of 
spray  from  the  grass,  and  leaving  the  marks  of  his  passage 
in  dark  trails  along  the  whiteness  of  the  dew-drenched 
grass.  Latimer,  in  his  pumps,  kept  sedately  to  the  gravel 
path. 

"I  say,  did  you  notice  anything  funny  at  breakfast?" 
he  said,  coming  to  the  point  that  had  been  intriguing  him. 

"Yes."  Dickie  evidently  had  no  doubts  on  the  subject. 
"I  wondered  if  it  was  because  you  didn't  come  down  to 
prayers.  You  miss  'em  about  two  days  in  every  three, 
now." 

Latimer  hesitated  and  decided  not  to  question  that 
charge.  "I  don't  think  it  was,"  he  said. 

"The  pater  asked  whether  you  weren't  coming,  after 
the  servants  were  in  the  room." 

"Did  he?"  Latimer's  tone  expressed  reserrtment  at  hav- 
ing been  thus  inferentially  criticised  not  only  before  Dickie, 
but  also  in  the  presence  of  the  two  maid-servants.  He  was 
annoyed  with  his  father  for  displaying  so  little  tact;  why 
couldn't  he  have  waited  and  spoken  to  Latimer,  himself, 
quietly.  He  always  meant  to  be  down  to  prayers,  but  he 
had  an  unfortunate  habit  of  going  to  sleep  again  after  he 
was  called.  Emma  always  called  him  too  early.  .  .  . 

"I'll  speak  to  him  about  it,"  he  said  by  way  of  vindicating 
his  independence,  and  then  went  on  quickly :  "But  it  wasn't 
that  that  made  the  mater  look  so  worried." 


LAISSEZ  FAIRE  47 

"Do  you  think  it's  the  old  money  trouble  again?"  Dickie 
asked. 

"I  don't  know.  Yes,  I  do.  I  expect  it  is.  There  was 
a  letter  from  the  Bank.  I  saw  it  on  the  table." 

"Do  you  think  it's  serious?" 

"How  should  I  know?" 

"They'd  never  put  him  in  the  Bankruptcy  Court,  or  any- 
thing of  that  sort,  would  they?" 

Latimer,  in  the  capacity  of  man  of  the  world,  with  the 
vast  experiences  of  an  undergraduate  going  up  next  month 
to  begin  his  second  year,  paused  to  give  that  question  judi- 
cial consideration. 

"Who's  'they/  after  all,  you  know,"  he  said.  "I  don't 
suppose  we  owe  much  money  to  tradesmen  and  people 
of  that  kind." 

"What  about  that  overdraught  at  the  Bank?" 

"They  can't  come  down  on  him  for  that,"  replied  Lati- 
mer with  an  air  of  authority.  "It's  their  own  look-out  for 
letting  him  overdraw." 

"But  it  means  selling  more  shares  or  something,"  com- 
mented Dickie. 

"Makes  one  feel  rather  rotten,  doesn't  it  ?"  remarked  Lati- 
mer. "I  can't  think  why  Edward  doesn't  get  a  proper  cu- 
racy." 

"You'll  have  to  stay  on  at  Downing  anyhow,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Well,  of  course,  you  young  ass.  How  the  dickens  am 
I  going  to  make  a  living  if  I  don't  take  my  degree?  But 
I  expect  you'll  have  to  leave  Oakstone." 

"Yes,"  replied  Dickie.  "I  know."  He  paused  a  moment 
and  then  said:  "I'd  better  go  and  get  some  worms.  Will 
you  ask  the  mater  about  something  to  take  for  lunch  ?  The 
tackle's  all  ready.  I  used  it  a  few  days  ago." 

"All  serene,"  replied  Latimer  calmly.  "I'll  go  in  a  min- 
ute or  two.  I  expect  the  mater's  still  in  the  kitchen." 

"She  isn't ;  she's  here,"  remarked  Dickie,  as  he  turned  to 
go  down  the  lawn. 

Mrs.  Lynneker  in  an  abundant  blue  apron  and  snow 
overshoes  was  coming  through  the  wire  arch  that  separated 


48  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

the  back  from  the  front  garden  on  that  side.  She  stopped 
to  grab  a  fine  head  of  cow-parsley  as  she  passed  the  corner 
of  the  shrubbery. 

"Going  to  feed  the  rabbits,"  Latimer  commented. 

"No,  I  think  she's  looking  for  us,"  Dickie  said,  and  the 
two  boys  came  out  from  under  the  screen  of  the  big  elm  at 
the  top  of  the  lawn  and  hailed  her. 

She  looked  up  quickly  and  made  signs  to  them,  and  then 
came  towards  them  at  a  little  eager  trot. 

"I  wish  she  wouldn't  run"  murmured  Latimer,  frowning. 
Dickie  saved  her  the  exertion  by  hurrying  to  meet  her. 


in 

Mrs.  Lynneker  had  stopped  before  he  reached  her.  She 
still  looked  harassed. 

"I've  been  trying  to  find  you/'  she  said. 

"Me,  more  particularly?"  asked  Dickie,  as  Latimer  saun- 
tered up. 

Mrs.  Lynneker  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  her  two 
sons  with  an  expression  of  faint  distress. 

"Your  father  has  been  dreadfully  upset  this  morning," 
she  said. 

"Bank?"  queried  Latimer  briefly,  and  his  mother  nodded 
and  set  her  lips. 

"I  don't  know  how  serious  it  is,  really,"  she  said.  She 
had  already  taken  the  two  boys  into  her  confidence,  and 
the  three  of  them  stood  intent  and  frowning,  weighing  and 
re-considering  the  old  problem. 

"He  says  that  he  can't  overdraw  any  more,"  Mrs.  Lyn- 
neker continued,  "and  that  he'll  have  to  sell  more  shares. 
He  asked  me  to  tell  you.  He  said  that  you  ought  to  know 
just  how  things  are." 

"What  does  he  expect  us  to  do?"  asked  Latimer  impa- 
tiently. "I  suppose  I  could  get  some  rotten  mastership  or 
other,"  he  added  as  an  afterthought. 

"I  might  emigrate,"  remarked  Dickie,  and  looked  at  his 


LAISSEZ  FAIRE  49 

mother  hopefully  as  though  the  suggestion  were  full  of 
promise. 

"If  one  only  knew  how  serious  it  was,"  she  said,  re- 
turning to  her  old  grievance.  "Your  father  never  tells  me 
anything." 

"It's  rot  to  talk  about  emigrating,"  was  Latimer's  com- 
ment. 

"I  suppose  something  ought  to  be  done,"  Dickie  returned. 
"I  didn't  suggest  that  you  should  go." 

"We  ought  to  be  told  the  actual  facts,"  Latimer  pro- 
tested. He  paused  for  a  moment  on  the  thought  of  declar- 
ing that  he  would  go  at  once  and  demand  full  confidence 
from  his  father,  and  then  said:  "One  doesn't  want  to  do 
anything  absolutely  desperate,  unless  there's  some  jolly 
good  reason  for  it." 

Mrs.  Lynneker  sighed  helplessly,  saw  a  fine  dandelion 
at  the  edge  of  the  shrubbery  and  made  a  plunge  for  it. 
When  she  had  added  that  plant  to  the  trophies  already  col- 
lected in  her  apron,  she  sighed  again  and  said, 

"It's  happened  so  often  before,  of  course." 

"But  he  can't  go  on  selling  shares  for  ever,  you  know, 
mater,"  Dickie  said.  "He'll  get  to  the  end  of  them  one 
day." 

"I've  never  properly  understood  about  those  shares,"  his 
mother  acknowledged. 

Latimer  was  kicking  a  hole  in  the  gravel. 

"Look  here,  I'll  go  in  and  talk  to  him,"  Dickie  announced. 

His  mother  and  brother  shook  their  heads  doubtfully. 

"He  won't  tell  you  anything,"  Mrs.  Lynneker  said.  "He's 
— he's  very  upset  this  morning." 

"You'd  probably  be  infernally  cheeky  or  something,"  was 
Latimer's  criticism. 

Dickie  looked  moody  and  obstinate. 

"Somebody's  got  to  do  something,"  he  said.  "What's 
the  good  of  talking  about  it  and  never  doing  anything? 
If  it's  really  serious  we  ought  to  know,  and  I'm  quite  will- 
ing to  go  to  Canada  or  somewhere,  and  try  to  make  a  living. 
I  ought  to  be  able  to  get  a  job  as  a  carpenter." 


50  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"  'Mr.  Dick  puts  us  all  right/  "  quoted  Latimer  ironically ; 
"only  you're  pretty  certain  to  make  things  twenty  times 
worse,  if  you  do  go  in  and  see  the  pater,"  he  added.  "Are 
you  going  to  demand  to  see  his  pass-book?" 

"Don't  be  so  frightfully  funny,"  Dickie  said,  pushing 
Larimer's  opposition  on  one  side.  "I  think  I  will  go  and 
see  him,  mater,"  he  insisted. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  gleam  of  hope.  "What  shall 
you  say  to  him?"  she  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Dickie.  He  had  a  sudden  sense 
of  the  coming  interview  that  made  him  feel  as  if  he  had 
been  disloyal  in  doubting  his  father's  difficulties.  He  won- 
dered why,  as  a  family,  'they  should  be  for  ever  "taking 
sides";  why  his  mother  was  always  ranged  as  his  father's 
antagonist  ? 

"Well,  if  you'll  take  my  advice,  you'll  jolly  well  leave  it 
alone,  young  Dickie,"  put  in  Latimer.  "You'll  only  make 
some  holy  blunder ;  you  always  do." 

Dickie  looked  at  his  brother  with  frank  interest.  "I'm 
not  sure  it  isn't  better  to  blunder  a  bit  than  just  go  on  let- 
ting things  slide,"  he  said. 

Latimer  had  gone  back  to  his  excavations  in  the  gravel 
path.  "Oh !  don't  be  a  young  ass,"  he  grumbled.  "Who's 
letting  things  slide  ?  Only  one  has  to  use  a  certain  amount 
of  tact — if  you  happen  to  know  what  tact  means." 

"Perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  Latimer  went,"  hazarded 
Mrs.  Lynneker. 

"I  suppose  I  ought  to  go  if  any  one  does,"  Latimer  ad- 
mitted. 

"Well,  go,  then,"  Dickie  urged  him. 

"I'm  not  sure  that  it's  the  right  thing  to  do,"  he  protested, 
frowning.  "You're  in  such  an  infernal  hurry  about  it. 
It  seems  to  me  that  we  ought  to  consider  everything  very 
carefully  before  we  go  in  and  see  him." 

Dickie  looked  at  his  brother,  who  didn't  return  his  re- 
gard, and  then  at  his  mother,  who  met  his  eyes  and  framed 
the  words  "You  go"  with  her  lips.  She  had  more  faith 


LAISSEZ  FAIRE  51 

in  Dickie's  blundering  than  in  all  Latimer's  or  Edward's 
tact. 

Latimer  was  carefully  filling  up  and  smoothing  down 
the  hole  he  had  made  in  the  path.  "I  can't  see  that  it's 
any  good  rushing  it,  in  any  case,"  he  said.  "Let's  go  fishing 
and  talk  it  all  over.  We  thought  of  going  to  Allerton," 
he  explained  to  his  mother.  "Could  we  take  some  sand- 
wiches or  something?" 

"I  must  go  and  dig  for  worms,"  put  in  Dickie,  and  turned 
to  go  across  the  lawn  towards  the  kitchen  garden,  and 
more  especially  towards  the  cucumber  frames,  the  habitat 
of  the  brandlings  he  sought.  From  behind  Latimer's  back 
he  nodded  reassuringly  to  his  mother. 

Before  he  had  crossed  the  lawn,  she  had  returned  to  her 
forage  for  green  stuff.  Latimer  was  thoughtfully  pacing 
the  gravel  walk. 


IV 

Dickie  entered  the  house  through  the  kitchen,  went 
straight  to  his  father's  study  and  knocked  gently.  No  one 
ever  entered  the  study  without  knocking. 

His  father  looked  up  with  evident  irritation  when  Dickie 
answered  the  summons  to  come  in. 

"I  say,  pater,  can  I  speak  to  you  for  a  minute?"  he  asked. 

The  frown  of  irritation  was  not  smoothed  from  Mr.  Lyn- 
neker's  face  by  that  unexpected  request.  He  associated  all 
such  tentative  openings  with  some  kind  of  demand  for 
money ;  and  he  imagined,  now,  that  his  message  to  the  boys 
had  not  yet  been  delivered  by  his  wife,  and  that  Dickie's 
presence  was  due  to  a  most  unfortunately  timed  desire 
for  extra  pocket-money — a  few  shillings,  perhaps,  to  buy 
a  cricket-ball  or  fishing  tackle. 

"Yes,  yes,  what  is  it?"  he  said  impatiently. 

Dickie  closed  the  door  gently,  and  stood  leaning  with  his 
back  against  it. 

"I  want  to  help,  pater,  if  I  can,"  he  said.    Edward  and 


52  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

Latimer  would  have  looked  a  little  sheepish  and  self-con- 
scious if  they  had  made  that  offer;  Dickie  looked  straight 
into  his  father's  face,  with  a  frank  sympathy. 

"Help?"  echoed  Mr.  Lynneker.  The  irritation  had  gone 
from  his  voice  and  he  was  fidgeting  with  the  quill  pen 
he  had  been  cutting  when  Dickie  came  in. 

"Yes,"  Dickie  said.  "Mater's  been  telling  me  and  Lati- 
mer that  things  are  a  bit  rocky  all  round ;  and  I  want  you 
to  let  me  leave  Oakstone  and  go  to  Canada,  or  somewhere. 
Will  you?" 

Mr.  Lynneker  dropped  his  pen,  got  up  and  stood  by  the 
mantelpiece,  turning  his  back  on  the  room.  He  was  won- 
dering why  none  of  his  family  had  ever  treated  him  like 
this  before.  Even  Eleanor  was  never  perfectly  frank  and 
open  with  him.  And  he  had  a  feeling  of  resentment  against 
his  wife.  She  was  in  their  children's  confidence.  They 
told  her  everything  and  she  had  always  stood  between 
them  and  him.  He  had  got  into  the  habit  of  sending  them 
messages  by  her.  .  .  . 

"I  shouldn't  mind  a  bit,  you  know,  except,  of  course,  for 
leaving  you  and  the  mater,"  Dickie  went  on  as  his  father 
still  kept  silence. 

"But,  my  dear  boy,  why  Canada?"  Mr.  Lynneker  asked, 
without  turning  his  head.  He  had  one  foot  on  the  fender 
and  was  apparently  studying  the  empty  grate. 

"I  don't  know,"  returned  Dickie.  "I  thought  it  was  the 
kind  of  place  one  did  go  to,  that  was  all.  I  thought  I  might 
p'raps  work  as  a  carpenter." 

"Bell  might  take  you  into  my  Bank  ..."  Mr.  Lynneker 
began  and  Dickie  caught  at  the  suggestion  before  it  could 
be  elaborated. 

"Ohf  I  say,  would  he,  do  you  think?  That's  a  good 
idea,"  he  exclaimed.  "Couldn't  we  see  about  it  at  once?" 

Mrv  Lynneker  had  a  momentary  suspicion  of  his  son's 
motives,  and  he  turned  round  and  faced  him  as  he  said, 

"Are  you  so  anxious  to  leave  school?" 

"Well — rather  not,"  returned  Dickie,  suddenly  quenched, 
a  little  affronted.  "You  know  I'm  not,  pater,"  he  went  on. 


LAISSEZ  FAIRE  53 

"I'm  awfully  keen  on  Oakstone;  but  the  mater  told  us  you 
were  in  some  kind  of  money  trouble,  and  Latimer  and  I 
want  to  help." 

"Latimer,  too?" 

"He  said  something  about  a  mastership,"  Dickie  explained 
and  wondered  whether  Latimer  would  thank  him  for  men- 
tioning that  impulsive  offer.  "Of  course,  he's  got  his  schol- 
arship," he  added;  "and  it  would  be  rather  a  pity  for  him 
to  chuck  it." 

Mr.  Lynneker  sat  down  and  took  up  his  pen  again.  He 
had  been  moved  by  Dickie's  offer,  but  he  wanted  before 
all  things  to  be  perfectly  just. 

"Have  you  ever  thought  of  taking  orders,  Dick?"  he 
asked. 

Dickie's  cheeks  flushed.  He  had  been  expecting  this  sug- 
gestion from  one  or  other  of  his  parents,  and  anticipated 
the  possibility  of  what  he  called  "ructions"  when  he  made 
his  inclinations  known.  He  might,  now,  have  avoided  the 
direct  issue  by  protesting  that  the  expense  involved  put 
that  proposal  out  of  the  question;  but  Dickie  had  none  of 
the  Lynneker  gift  for  finesse. 

"I  have  thought  about  it,  pater,"  he  said,  "but  I  don't 
want  to  be  a  parson." 

As  a  human  being  and  the  father  of  a  family,  Mr.  Lyn- 
neker was  relieved  by  his  boy's  statement;  but  as  a  priest 
of  the  English  church,  he  had  what  he  regarded  as  an  un- 
avoidable duty  to  perform.  He  frowned  slightly  and  re- 
adjusted his  pince-nez,  as  he  replied;  and  his  voice  had  be- 
come clearer  and  more  formal. 

"Your  mother  and  I  would  have  liked  you  to  go  into 
the  church,"  he  said;  "and  I  fancy  I  could  still  manage  it 
by  hook  or  by  crook.  I  am  not  at  all  anxious  to  see  you  tied 
down  to  a  stool  in  a  Bank,  I  assure  you.  It  isn't  an  occu- 
pation I  should  choose  for  you." 

He  paused  a  moment,  but  as  Dickie  still  blushed  uncom- 
fortably and  made  no  reply,  he  went  on, 

"Why  don't  you  want  to  take  orders,  my  boy  ?" 

"I'm  not  sure  exactly,"  Dickie  said.     "I  just  feel  that 


54  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

I'd  sooner  not.    It — it  seems  to  me  such  a  tie,  somehow." 

"You  could  hardly  wish  for  a  better  tie,"  his  father  re- 
turned irritably,  uncomfortably,  conscious  that  he  could  ap- 
preciate his  son's  attitude  only  too  well. 

"Oh!  I  know,"  Dickie  said.  "But  I  don't  feel  that  I 
could  go  in  for  it  with  any  enthusiasm." 

"That  might  come  later,"  Mr.  Lynneker  suggested,  rather 
in  the  manner  of  a  worldly  mother  advising  her  daughter 
to  marry  for  position. 

Dickie's  hand  went  up  to  his  hair.  This  was  a  problem 
that  had  to  be  solved,  and  he  attacked  it  without  regard 
to  secondary  aspects. 

"I  don't  feel  that  way  about  it,"  he  said.  "I  wouldn't 
go  into  the  church  unless  I  meant  to  go  in  for  it  like  any- 
thing. I'd  want  to  be  a  missionary,  or  something  des- 
perate. .  .  ." 

Mr.  Lynneker's  sense  of  humour  was  a  little  smothered 
that  morning.  The  house-bills  for  August  had  been  un- 
usually, as  he  thought  unnecessarily,  high,  a  fact  that  had 
upset  him  more  than  the  receipt  of  the  expected  notice  from 
the  Bank.  And  now  he  was  conscious  of  being  thwarted, 
and  implicitly  criticised,  a  consciousness  that  temporarily 
outbalanced  his  realisation  of  his  son's  youthful  impetuosity 
and  real  desire  to  help. 

"When  you  are  a  little  older,  my  boy,"  he  said  impa- 
tiently, "you'll  understand  that  there  are  other  and  harder 
forms  of  service  than  the  heroic.  We  all  want  to  do  the 
spectacular  things,  as  Naaman  did." 

Dickie  felt  snubbed.  This  was  another  of  those  abso- 
lutes that  he  was  continually  blundering  against,  incontro- 
vertible statements  that  youth  must  accept  with  all  the  other 
dogmas  of  the  prehistoric  governess. 

"Yes,  father,"  he  said  submissively.  "I  don't  want  to 
be  heroic." 

"Have  you  ever  had  a  particular  leaning  to  any  pro- 
fession?" his  father  asked.  "Or  have  you  simply  never 
thought  about  it?" 

"I  think  I  should  rather  like  to  be  an  astronomer,"  Dickie 


LAISSEZ  FAIRE  55 

replied;  and  still  his  father  did  not  smile.  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders  as  though  to  dismiss  such  puerile  fancies,  and 
obliterated  the  whole  of  the  recent  conversation  by  saying, 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  to  do  for  the  best." 

"Why  not  the  Bank,  pater?"  asked  Dickie,  quite  willing 
to  come  back  to  the  obvious  and  practical. 

But  Mr.  Lynneker  had  become  lost,  now,  in  a  maze  of 
cross-purposes.  He  was  sincerely  anxious  about  his  finan- 
cial position,  and  he  had  been  thwarted  in  his  attempt  to  be 
unwisely  generous  and  send  Dickie  to  Cambridge.  He 
would  have  been  glad  of  such  a  valid  justification  for  that 
sacrifice  as  the  training  of  Dickie  for  Holy  Orders.  Lack- 
ing that,  he  had  to  confront,  and  refused  at  that  moment 
to  confront,  the  suggestion  that  he  was  failing  in  his  duty 
to  one  of  his  sons. 

"The  whole  thing  wants  consideration,"  he  decided.  "We 
can't  possibly  settle  it,  just  now." 

Dickie  understood  that  he  was  dismissed.  "I'm  sorry 
I  interrupted  you,  pater,"  he  said;  "but  you  know,  I  feel 
that  I  ought  to  go  into  the  Bank." 


It  all  seemed  so  absurdly  simple  to  him.  There  were 
evil  and  remedy  conveniently  near  together.  He  had  not 
come  yet  to  a  criticism  of  his  family,  nor  even  to  a  con- 
scious apprehension  of  their  methods. 

In  that  household,  difficulties  were  debated,  but  it  was 
rare  for  any  one  to  take  action.  The  average  trouble,  what- 
ever it  was,  righted  itself  in  time.  Something  always  hap- 
pened, sooner  or  later. 

Edward  had  caught  his  father's  phrase,  and  delivered 
himself  of  the  remark  that  the  affair  "wanted  considera- 
tion," whenever  the  awful  alternative  of  taking  immediate 
action  was  remotely  possible.  "It's  no  earthly  good  to  rush 
things,"  was  the  line  of  his  aigument;  "one  has  to  look  at 
the  problem  from  every  point  of  view."  In  any  matter 


56  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

outside  politics  and  religion,  he  had  a  great  idea  of  hearing 
both  sides. 

But,  at  seventeen,  Dickie  was  only  vaguely  aware  of 
his  family's  manner  of  avoiding  the  unpleasant  by  a  settled 
habit  of  procrastination.  He  regarded  them  all,  even  Lati- 
mer,  with  a  certain  respect  and  deference  that  included 
their  opinions  and  manner  of  thought.  The  opinions  were 
those  that  he  had  been  trained  to  reverence,  and  repre- 
sented what  he  supposed  to  be  Catholic  and  unchanging  in- 
stitutions. The  general  habit  of  thought  fell  into  much 
the  same  category.  It  was  a  characteristic  so  familiar  that 
it  appeared  to  be  necessarily  right.  His  cousins  at  Culver 
followed  the  same  habit,  and  no  expression  that  he  had 
ever  beard  from  any  of  the  neighbouring  clergy,  or  small 
land-owners,  had  presented  any  possible  alternative  to  the 
comforting  policy  of  laissez-faire. 

Certainly,  no  countervailing  heresy  had  been  preached 
at  Oakstone.  There,  also,  he  had  been  taught  the  foolish- 
ness of  opposition  to  what  he  presumed  to  be  the  accepted 
and  settled  tendencies  of  the  universe.  He  had  heard  of 
radicals ;  there  was  Gann,  the  sexton ;  and  some  foolish  can- 
didate had  contested  the  Medborough  election  in  the  Liberal 
interest  last  July ; — but  they  were,  ex  hypothesi,  either  un- 
educated and  contemptible  vulgarians,  or  fools. 

Charles  Bradlaugh  came — pace  Mr.  Lynneker,  and  the 
family  accepted  his  classification  without  question — into 
the  second  category.  His  vaunted  "atheism"  had  not  fright- 
ened Halton,  and  had  not,  therefore,  aroused  any  particular 
fury  of  hate.  He  was  pitied  as  a  blind  and  arrogant  mite 
who  had  deplorably  dared  to  set  up  his  puny  strength  in 
defiance  of  the  omnipotent  immutable.  Mr.  Lynneker,  from 
his  security,  spoke  of  him  with  a  touch  of  condescension. 
"Fool!"  was  the  limit  of  his  abuse  for  Bradlaugh. 

But  there  was  a  third  category,  not  clearly  differentiated 
by  Dickie  who  had  never  troubled  to  examine  the  particu- 
lar disqualifications  of  Radicals  and  "Atheists,"  a  list  that 
included  criminals  and  other  varieties  of  antichrist.  And 
chief  among  these  enemies  of  society  at  that  moment  was 


LAISSEZ  FAIRE  57 

the  man  who  had  just  accepted  office  for  the  fourth  time, 
and  was  proposing  (with  a  majority  of  39)  to  destroy  the 
British  constitution.  "Fool"  was  no  word  to  apply  to  Mr. 
Gladstone  at  Halton.  He  had  aroused  fear  and  an  intensity 
of  hate.  He  was  rascal,  villain,  unprincipled,  the  man  who 
"owed  his  greatness  to  his  country's  ruin" ;  and  since  1885, 
specifically  and  without  mitigation,  a  Murderer.  An  en- 
graving of  Gordon  hung  in  the  drawing-room  at  Halton 
Rectory,  and  Mr.  Lynneker  often  looked  at  it  and  extolled 
the  martyr,  with  bitter  reference  to  the  consummate  rascal 
who  had  sacrificed  him. 

All  these  conceptions  Dickie  understood  to  be  expres- 
sions of  the  only  right  and  sane  attitude  towards  religion 
and  politics.  Halton  and  Oakstone  had  striven,  without 
any  conscious  object,  to  grave  these  conceptions  deeply  into 
his  young  mind.  He  had  been  taught.  And  his  preceptors 
had  conscientiously  endeavoured  to  mould  the  same  image 
that  had  been  the  model  for  their  own  training.  The  de- 
tail was  changed  in  some  respects  but  the  outline  was  the 
same. 

And,  now,  when  his  life  was  to  be  affected  by  some 
practical  application  of  the  principles  he  had  been  taught, 
he  could  make  no  application  because  he  knew  nothing  of 
reason  in  this  connexion.  Reasons  had  been  explicitly  de- 
nied to  him  when  he  had  sought  them.  The  creed  began 
"I  believe  and  you  must  believe  also";  and  creeds  do  not 
open  with  argument.  To  Dickie,  the  Bank  was  merely  an 
obvious  remedy;  slightly  distasteful  like  most  remedies, 
but  effective.  He  could  not  see  the  dangers  of  life  in  a 
town,  that  despite  its  Cathedral  influence,  had  only  returned 
Lord  William  March  by  a  majority  of  273.  Dickie  natu- 
rally assumed  that  every  one  in  Medborough  who  was  not  a 
vulgarian,  a  fool  or  a  criminal,  thought  as  he  had  been 
taught  to  think. 

Nor  did  Mr.  Lynneker,  himself,  objectively  face  and 
critically  consider  these  dangers.  His  shrinking  from  the 
thought  of  the  Bank  as  a  remedy  was  an  inevitable  re- 
action; and  was  due  to  his  sixty-five  years'  submission 


58  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

to  a  particular  creed  and  attitude.  And  it  increased  his 
irritation  to  find  that  his  youngest  son  had,  apparently, 
so  little  realisation  of  what  was  due  to  the  family  pride. 


VI 

"One  moment,  my  boy!"  he  said,  as  Dickie  turned  the 
handle  of  the  study  door.  "I  don't  think  you  realise  what 
you  are  saying.  Do  you  understand  what  it  will  mean 
to  you  if  you  go  into  my  Bank  as  a  clerk?" 

Dickie  tried  to  analyse  the  proposition  by  an  inductive 
process. 

"I  suppose  it  means  adding  up  lots  of  figures,"  he  said  ; 
"and  counting  money  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  I  don't 
think  I  should  be  bad  at  it  after  a  little  practice." 

His  father  frowned  impatiently.  "I've  no  doubt  what- 
ever that  you'd  be  equal  to  the  work,"  he  said.  "But  it 
doesn't  promise  a  very  magnificent  future." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Dickie.  "I  see.  But,  pater,  I  don't 
see  why  I  need  stop  in  the  Bank  for  ever.  I  should  have 
a  certain  amount  of  time  to  go  on  working,  at  maths,  for 
example." 

That  was  a  way  of  escape  for  Mr.  Lynneker's  conscience, 
but  he  hesitated  to  take  it.  He  had  little  faith  in  such  a 
heroic  remedy.  The  Lynnekers  stayed  where  they  were 
put;  and  he  judged  human  nature,  and  more  particularly 
his  own  sons,  by  the  standard  that  was  most  familiar  to 
him. 

"You  probably  won't  have  much  inclination  to  work  at 
night  after  a  long  day  in  an  office,"  he  said. 

"Reading  maths  isn't  like  ordinary  work,"  explained 
Dickie.  To  him  "work"  meant  cramming  uninteresting 
facts. 

"But  you  need  a  clear  head,"  his  father  returned. 

"Oh!  I  don't  know,"  said  Dickie.  He  had  no  associa- 
tions between  muddle-headedness  and  mathematics. 

Mr.    Lynneker  attributed  their   inability  to  understand 


LAISSEZ  FAIRE  59 

one  another  to  Dickie's  ignorance.  He  was  about  to  re- 
peat his  formula  that  "the  whole  thing  wanted  considera- 
tion/' when  Dickie  interposed  with  the  clarifying  suggestion 
that  they  might  "try  it  for  three  months." 

Mr.  Lynneker  perceptibly  brightened.  This  was  a  decent 
evasion,  sanctioned  by  precedent.  "Well,  we  might  try  it 
and  see,"  was  another  family  phrase  that  expressed  not  a 
spirit  of  empiricism,  but  of  procrastination.  The  chief 
anxiety  in  his  mind  at  that  moment  was  with  regard  to  Dr. 
Barnard,  who  should  have  had  a  term's  notice  if  Dickie 
were  to  leave  Oakstone.  Fortunately  that  old  statement 
of  his  intention  to  keep  the  boy  on  at  school  for  another 
year  had  never  been  definitely  cancelled. 

"Hm!"  commented  Mr.  Lynneker  and  looked  up  at  his 
son's  eager  face.  "If  we  found  that  it  didn't  answer,"  he 
said,  "you  might  cram  for  a  scholarship  with  Hornby  at 
Little  Milton."  He  was  so  honestly  anxious  not  to  spoil 
Dickie's  chances  off-hand. 

"Yes,"  murmured  Dickie  reluctantly.  He  knew  that  the 
Vicar  of  Little  Milton  was  a  classical  scholar.  "He  isn't 
mathematical,  of  course,"  he  added. 

"You're  quite  bent  on  mathematics?"  his  father  re- 
turned with  a  touch  of  petulance. 

"Well,  it's  the  only  subject  I'm  any  good  at,"  Dickie  ex- 
postulated. He  had  not  grasped  the  principle  of  the  de- 
sirable average  in  education. 

"Isn't  that  a  reason  why  you  should  read  up  your  Greek 
and  Latin  ?"  his  father  asked. 

Dickie  looked  round  the  bookshelves  that  lined  the  study 
as  if  he  would  find  some  escape  from  this  awful  persistent 
attack  of  the  tedious  classics.  Nothing  but  enemies  con- 
fronted him.  With  such  possible  exceptions  as  the  co1 
lected  works  of  Dickens,  Thackeray,  Walter  Scott  and 
Charles  Kingsley,  there  was  not  a  book  there  that  held  the 
least  interest  for  him.  The  thought  of  the  Medborough 
Bank  was  suddenly  presented  as  a  vision  of  glorious  freedom 
from  Sallust,  Cicero,  Herodotus  or  Euripides,  and  all  thos$ 


60  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

other  Mediterranean  authors  whom  he  was  expected  to 
tackle  before  his  education  was  complete. 

"I  don't  see  any  use  in  doing  that,"  he  said.  "If  I  ever 
go  to  Cambridge  I  shall  read  for  the  Mathematical  Tripos. 
I  know  enough  classics  to  pass,  my  Previous,  and  that's  all 
that's  wanted.  But  we  needn't  bother  about  that  now,  pater, 
need  we?  Couldn't  we  decide  to  try  the  Bank  for  three 
months  ?" 

"Very  well,  as  you  seem  bent  on  it,"  his  father  said,  defi- 
nitely shelving  the  responsibility  for  that  time.  "I  am 
going  in  this  afternoon  and  I'll  speak  to  Bell  about  it." 

"Would  you  like  me  to  come?"  Dickie  asked. 

Mr.  Lynneker  thought  not.  He  felt  that  he  was  con- 
ferring an  honour  on  the  Medborough  manager  of  the  City 
&  County  Bank  by  permitting  Dickie  to  work  for  him ;  he 
did  not  mean  to  submit  his  son  for  Mr.  Bell's  approval. 

"Right-oh!"  agreed  Dickie;  and  then  understanding  that 
the  conference  was  ended  and  that  it  was  only  necessary  to 
make  some  final  comment  before  he  departed  to  dig  for 
worms,  he  fell  back  on  the  family  cliche.  "I  expect  it'll  be 
all  right,"  he  said. 

When  he  was  alone  Mr.  Lynneker  wished  that  he  had 
made  some  acknowledgment  of  his  son's  generosity  in  of- 
fering himself.  Dickie  was  obviously  ignorant  of  the  nature 
of  the  sacrifice  he  was  making,  and  all  boys  wanted  to  get 
away  from  the  discipline  of  school  life.  But  he  had  come 
forward  with  genuine  sympathy,  and  a  practical  suggestion. 
"There  are  great  possibilities  in  Dickie,"  Mr.  Lynneker 
murmured;  he  had  a  confirmed  habit  of  talking  to  himself 
in  undertones — "great  possibilities."  He  repeated  the 
phrase  three  or  four  times.  He  wanted  to  dwell  on  that, 
and  to  put  away  from  him  the  thought  that,  in  some  in- 
explicable way,  Dickie  was  not  a  Lynneker. 


VII 

Dickie  found  his  mother  and  Latimer  sitting  in  the  din- 
ing-room with  the  door  open.    They  were  evidently  keeping 


LAISSEZ  FAIRE  61 

their  eyes  on  the  study  and  waiting  to  hear  the  upshot  of 
the  momentous  interview. 

Latimer  beckoned  and  closed  the  dining-room  door  with 
the  air  of  a  conspirator  when  his  brother  had  entered. 

"Well?"  he  said. 

"I'm  going  into  the  Bank,"  Dickie  announced  briefly. 
"The  pater's  going  to  see  Bell  this  afternoon." 

Latimer  whistled.  "Pretty  rotten  for  you,"  was  his  com- 
ment. 

"I  don't  see  it,"  replied  Dickie.  "Sooner  do  that  than 
mug  Livy  any  day." 

"What  did  he  say?"  Latimer  asked. 

"Lots  of  things.  He  wasn't  at  all  keen  on  my  doing  it. 
I'm  to  try  it  for  three  months.  I  say,  you  haven't  got  your 
boots  on,  yet.  I'll  go  and  get  those  worms.  And,  mater, 
do  you  suppose  there's  any  paste  and  a  bit  of  old  yellow 
cheese, — cheese-paste  is  rather  a  good  bait  for  club." 

"I'll  see,  dear,"  Mrs.  Lynneker  said,  and  then:  "Your 
father  wasn't  put  out  at  all  by  your  going  in  to  him?" 

"I  don't  think  so,"  Dickie  said.     "He  seemed  all  right." 

"And  you  really  don't  mind?" 

"Rather  not;  I  expect  it'll  be  rather  sport.  I  wonder 
what  salary  I  shall  get?" 

"Probably  you  won't  get  anything  to  start  with,"  Lati- 
mer thought. 

"Not  much  good  my  going  if  I  don't,"  retorted  Dickie. 
"Do  buck  up  and  see  about  that  cheese-paste  and  get  your 
boots  on,"  he  added.  "I  shan't  be  half  a  shake.  .  .  ." 

The  sun  was  high  above  the  elms,  now;  and  save  under 
the  shadows  of  the  big  trees,  the  dew  had  all  vanished  from 
the  grass. 

"Ripping  day,"  reflected  Dickie,  as  he  trowelled  vigor- 
ously in  the  manure  that  was  banked  up  round  the  cucum- 
ber frames.  He  was  deciding  which  pools  it  would  be  ad- 
visable to  fish. 

He  was  immensely  disgusted  when  he  returned,  glowing, 
to  the  house,  to  find  that  Latimer,  in  his  pumps,  was  still 
debating  the  financial  situation  with  his  mother. 


62  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"Oh!  great  Scott,  what's  the  hurry?"  Latimer  said,  but 
Mrs.  Lynneker  flushed  slightly  and  got  up  quickly. 

"Oh!  the  cheese-paste!"  she  said.  "I'll  go  and  see 
about  it." 

"All  right,  mater,  I  can  do  it,  now,"  Dickie  assured  her, 
"while  Latimer  gets  his  boots  on." 


IV 

THE    LYNNEKER    METHOD 


MR.  LYNNEKER  described  himself  as  a  Member 
of  the  Old  School,  and  he  was  partly  awake  to  the  fact 
that  that  school  was  passing.  He  frequently  affirmed  his 
inability  to  understand  what  the  younger  generation  was 
"coming  to."  He  had  been  born  three  years  before  the 
death  of  George  IV,  and  his  temper  was  not  characteris- 
tically Victorian. 

His  father  had  been  a  dignified  old  Tory  pluralist  who 
had  held  three  livings,  one  in  London  and  two  in  the  Mid- 
lands. Culver  was  the  chief  of  these  holdings,  ranking  as 
hardly  less  than  a  private  estate,  for  with  so  many  Lynne- 
kers  in  the  church,  the  tenure  of  the  Rectory  was  as  reason- 
ably assured  as  that  of  any  other  property. 

But  the  Lynneker  pride  of  race  found  no  boast  in  the 
possession  of  Culver.  That  was  a  modern,  i8th  century, 
acquisition.  The  departed  glories  of  the  family  were  ^repre- 
sented, now,  by  an  uninteresting  ruin,  the  remains  of  Lin- 
nerdale  Hall,  at  Linnerdale  in  Staffordshire. 

The  last  tenant  of  that  estate  had  died  in  1741,  and  with 
him  the  elder  branch  of  the  Lynnekers  had  ceased  to  be 
feudal  landlords.  For  five  hundred  years,  according  to  fair 
documentary  evidence,  they  had  been  established  in  the 
Staffordshire  dale  to  which  they  had  given  a  name,  but 
little  record  remained  now  of  their  influence  there,  save 
the  shapeless  mound  that  marked  the  site  of  the  old  Hall  and 
the  prevalence  of  variants  of  the  patronymic  among  the 

68 


64  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

county  people  in  such  diverse  shapes  as  Lanniger  and 
Lenners. 

The  Earl  of  Carronbridge  was  the  descendant  of  a 
younger  branch.  His  ancestor  had  been  a  fourth  son  and 
a  renegade  inasmuch  as  he  had  fought  on  the  side  of  York 
in  the  Civil  Wars.  The  title  of  Baron  Carronbridge  had 
been  conferred  on  this  turn-coat's  heir  by  Edward  IV  and 
the  Earldom  had  come  for  some  Whig  advocacy  in  the 
reign  of  George  II.  This  Scotch  offshoot,  although  noble 
for  so  many  generations,  was  usually  spoken  of  with  some 
suggestion  of  contempt  by  descendants  of  the  direct  line  — 
the  mark  of  cadency  was  exhibited  by  the  martlet  of  the 
Carronbridge  coat  of  arms,  there  had  been  intermarriages 
with  other  Scottish  families,  and  the  Whig  tradition  had 
unhappily  survived ;  the  present  Lord  Carronbridge  was,  in 
theory  at  least,  a  Gladstonian,  although  he  rarely  attended 
the  Upper  House.  This  slight  air  of  deferring  to  the 
junior  branch  did  not,  however,  deter  the  English  family 
from  acknowledging  the  relationship.  The  Carronbridges, 
apparently,  never  troubled  to  recognise  or  refute  the  claim 
to  kinship,  which,  indeed,  was  clearly  set  out  in  the  pages 
of  Burke. 

The  elder  branch  had  not  been  ennobled,  although  they 
could  claim  kinship  with  many  aristocratic  families  by  inter- 
marriage. They  had  sent  sons  to  the  wars,  and  there  was 
a  tradition  that  thirteen  Lynnekers  were  killed  in  the  battle 
of  Cregy;  but  the  only  famous  member  of  the  race  was 
that  Thomas  Linacre  (the  original  Norman  spelling)  who 
was  court  physician  to  Henry  VIII  and  the  tutor  of  Eras- 
mus, Sir  Thomas  More  and  Queen  Mary ;  and  his  connexion 
was  unhappily  somewhat  obscure.  It  was  difficult  to  account 
for  the  fact  that  he  was  probably  born  at  Canterbury,  unless 
he  were  the  illegitimate  son  of  some  apostate  Lynneker 
pilgrim;  and  even  so  he  might  have  derived  from  the 
Scottish  branch. 

Nevertheless,  if  the  Lynneker  records  showed  no  high 
achievement,  they  exhibited  all  the  marks  of  honourable 
and  gentle  birth,  and  a  succession  that  stretched  back  with- 


THE  LYNNEKER  METHOD  65 

out  a  break  to  the  Norman  invasion.  (The  name  figures 
among  the  servientes  in  Domesday  Book.)  If  they  had  not 
fought  their  way  to  place  and  honour,  they  had  hardly 
fallen  below  the  honourable  level  of  their  old  position. 
Through  all  their  incompetencies  ran  some  streak  of  stabil- 
ity, of  faith  in  their  own  rank. 

And  the  old  stock  was  still  fertile.  Canon  Lynneker  at 
Culver  had  six  children,  five  of  them  boys;  and  the  eldest 
brother  who  died  in  '8& — he  had  been  a  stipendiary  magis- 
trate— had  left  a  son  and  two  daughters.  The  fourth  brother 
was  the  only  one  who  had  had  no  issue.  He  had  married 
a  Miss  Gale — possibly  the  fault  had  been  hers — and  had 
died  young,  as  the  long-lived  Lynnekers  counted  it.  The 
Rector  of  Halton  referred  to  him  as  "poor  Dick" ;  an  under- 
stood allusion  to  the  fact  that  he  was  only  fifty-five  at  the 
time  of  his  death.  He,  too,  had  been  in  the  church  and 
had  held  a  living  in  Hampshire.  Of  Mr.  Lynneker's  two 
sisters  one  was  the  wife  of  a  Welsh  County  Court  Judge 
and  had  four  children ;  the  other  had  never  married.  Thus 
the  six  Lynnekers  of  the  old  generation  were  represented 
by  eighteen  children,  of  whom  ten  were  sons  capable 
of  carrying  on  the  name  and  the  tradition.  The  weak  period 
in  the  direct  line  had  been  in  the  days  of  old  Edward,  the 
pluralist,  whose  two  brothers  had  died  of  small-pox  before 
they  had  reached  the  marriageable  age,  and  had  left  him 
alone  to  perpetuate  the  stock. 

Descent  from  such  a  family  was  not  a  subject  for  boast; 
there  was  no  need  for  boasting.  The  name  announced  it- 
self. Ignorance  of  so  notable  a  pedigree  proclaimed  the 
stranger  as  one  who  knew  nothing  of  English  traditions. 
Particularly  ill-bred  was  that  absurd  question:  "Are  you 
related  to  the  General  ?"  the  reference  being  to  that  famous 
brother  of  Lord  Carronbridge's  who  had  won  his  honours 
in  the  Crimea.  The  correct  answer  was  to  admit  cousin- 
ship  and.  if  the  hearer  were  sufficiently  interested,  to  men- 
tion, not  the  precise  degree  of  cousinship  which  was  almost 
incalculable,  but  the  mere  fact  that  Carronbridge  was  the 
junior  branch.  The  thing  could  be  done  without  snobbery 


66  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

by  any  Lynneker.  They  had  the  dignified  consciousness 
of  their  breed. 

And  yet,  despite  the  soundness  of  the  link  that  had  so 
finely  carried  the  chain  on  into  the  iQth  century,  the  Lyn- 
neker blood  was  running  a  little  thin.  The  flavour  of  it 
remained  but  it  lacked  body,  like  some  amazingly  old  port 
that  had  passed  the  perfect  development  of  its  maturity. 
The  strain  had  been  so  individual  that  intermarriage  had 
scarcely  altered  it,  but  while  still  maintaining  its  chief 
characteristics,  the  strain  was  wearing  out.  Intellectually 
the  Lynnekers  were  dropping  behind  their  own  times.  They 
had  been  Tories,  every  man  of  them,  since  the  name  had 
come  into  use  at  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  century;  and, 
now,  their  conservatism  was  falling  into  senile  decay;  a 
fact  that  the  Rector  of  Halton  just  failed  to  recognise  in 
his  realisation  that  he  belonged  to  the  Old  School. 

He  took  his  own  family  as  the  standard  of  English  cul- 
ture, and  deplored  not  the  Lynneker  loss  of  vitality,  but 
the  growing  vulgarity  of  the  new  generation. 


II 

The  mark  of  his  attitude  was  to  be  found  in  his  treatment 
of  the  Bank  manager.  Mr.  Bell  was,  in  the  Rector's  phrase, 
"a  very  worthy  fellow."  He  had  been  a  Cathedral  chorister 
and  his  subsequent  success  had  not  spoiled  him.  The 
King's  School  at  Medborough  offers  a  free  education  to  all 
choristers,  and  although  in  the  mass  they  were  regarded  as 
social  pariahs  by  both  boarders  and  day-boys,  an  excep- 
tional individual,  such  as  Bell  had  been,  could  win  the 
recognition  of  being  treated  almost  as  an  equal.  And 
then  Bell  had  been  a  real  musician.  He  played  the  piano, 
violin  and  'cello  more  than  passably  well,  and  he  founded 
and  led  the  celebrated  Medborough  quartette  of  men's  voices 
that  was  engaged  all  over  the  county  for  every  concert 
of  any  pretension.  Finally,  his  manner  expressed  him. 
Some  becoming  air  of  deference  remained  as  the  result 


THE  LYNNEKER  METHOD  67 

of  his  chorister  training,  an  air  that  suited  his  quiet  habit 
and  justified  the  adjective  "gentlemanly,"  that  described 
him  in  the  Precincts.  As  Mrs.  Hillier,  the  Precentor's  wife, 
put  it,  "One  was  never  afraid  that  Mr.  Bell  would  take 
advantage.  .  .  ."  He  was  certainly  a  treasure  to  that 
Cathedral  branch  of  the  City  &  County. 

He  would,  in  any  case,  have  treated  the  Rector  of  Halton 
with  the  particular  respect  due  to  one  of  the  original  share- 
holders. In  his  free  bachelor  days — and  he  had  not  mar- 
ried until  he  was  forty — with  his  fellowship  and  his  minor 
canonry,  Mr.  Lynneker  had  saved  money,  and  when  the 
City  &  County  Banking  Co.  had  been  founded  in  1860,  he 
had  subscribed  for  and  obtained  five  ;£ioo  shares.  In  thirty 
years  those  shares  had  quadrupled  their  value  by  apprecia- 
tion and  by  the  issue  of  new  stock  at  par  to  the  first  holders, 
issues  that  until  the  last  fifteen  years  Mr.  Lynneker  had 
conscientiously  taken  up.  But  during  the  period  of  heavy 
outlay  on  his  children's  education,  he  had  been  forced  to  sell 
£800  of  his  holding,  and  he  was  now  paying  a  higher  rate 
of  interest  on  his  £300  overdraft  than  his  shares  were 
earning. 

Thus,  in  one  sense,  his  wife  was  justified  in  her  assump- 
tion that  their  financial  situation  was  not  so  perilous  as 
Mr.  Lynneker  led  her  to  believe.  It  was  true  that  if  that 
overdraft  were  made  good  by  a  further  sale  of  stock,  he 
would  still  have  £900  of  solid  capital  as  a  stand-by  in  case 
of  emergency.  But  as  he  realised,  and  as  he  believed  she 
never  could,  that  "sort  of  thing  could  not  go  on  indefi- 
nitely," and  moreover  he  was  perpetually  scared  by  the 
thought  of  that  spectre  which  must  haunt  the  incumbent 
of  any  Parish  with  good  Rectory  accommodation  and  a 
glebe  farm  of  300  acres,  the  fearful  spectre  of  "ecclesiastical 
dilapidations,"  as  administered  under  the  Act  of  1871. 

There  were  times  when  Mr.  Lynneker  had  daunting 
visions  of  a  widow  and  two  daughters  left  in  very  straight- 
ened circumstances.  .  .  . 

He  discussed  the  advisability  of  another  sale  of  stock 


THESE  LYNNEKERS 

that  afternoon  before  he  opened  the  question  of  Dickie's 
candidature.  Indeed,  he  had  got  to  his  feet  and  was 
drawing  on  his  driving-gloves,  and  Bell  was  politely  stand- 
ing, with  that  look  of  intent  occupation  on  his  face,  which 
always  saved  him  from  the  necessity  of  offering  super- 
fluous comments  on  the  weather. 

"Ah!  by  the  way,"  Mr.  Lynneker  began,  "I  think  I  re- 
member your  saying,  Bell,  that  you  might  have  a  vacancy 
in  the  Bank  for  my  youngest  boy?" 

"I  have  not  yet  filled  it,  Mr.  Lynneker,"  Bell  replied 
gravely. 

"And  do  you  think — er — what  would  you  advise?  I  feel 
that  I  can't  afford  to  send  a  third  son  to  Cambridge." 

"The  Bank  does  not  offer  any  considerable  advance- 
ment," Bell  said  reflectively,  as  if  he  were  considering  some 
hypothetical  case.  "A  junior  clerkship  begins  at  sixty 
pounds  a  year  and  rises  by  yearly  increments  of  ten  pounds 
to  a  hundred  and  fifty.  After  that  there  is  the  possibility 
of  a  branch  managership,  but  the  vacancies  do  not  occur 
very  often." 

"He  might  perhaps  try  it  for  a  few  months,"  ventured 
Mr.  Lynneker. 

"Yes?"  Mr.  Bell's  agreement  was  obviously  tempered 
by  a  reservation  that  he  immediately  displayed.  "Yes,  but 
it  would  hardly  be  advisable  to  put  that  before  the  Directors. 
They  leave  the  engagement  of  clerks  to  me,  but  I  report, 
of  course;  and  I  am  particularly  instructed  to  find  young 
men  who  are  likely  to  remain  with  us.  In  a  Bank,  as  you 
will  understand,  Mr.  Lynneker,  there  are  many  reasons 
why  a  constant  change  of  staff  is  inadvisable." 

The  Rector  coughed  irritably.  "Do  you  make  any  kind 
of  stipulation?"  he  asked. 

"If  it  were  possible  for  there  to  be  some  understanding 
that  he  would  stay  for  five  years  .  .  ." 

"He  has  a  mathematical  bias,"  Mr.  Lynneker  announced, 
as  if  Bell's  suggestion  had  not  reached  him.  "He  talks 
of  reading  for  some  other  profession  in  his  spare  time. 


THE  LYNNEKER  METHOD  69 

Personally  I  should  like  to  see  him  in  the  church.  I  believe 
he  has  quite  unusual  abilities.  We  have  only  thought  of 
his  coming  here  as  a  stop-gap." 

Mr.  Bell  nodded  sympathetically,  and  looked  as  if  he 
were  employed  in  some  immense  mental  calculation.  He 
could  maintain  an  unembarrassed  silence  for  some  minutes 
with  that  expression.  His  "I  perfectly  understand  your 
position"  was  a  particular  compliment  to  an  original  share- 
holder who  had  once  figured  gloriously  remote  in  the 
minor  Canons'  stalls. 

"He  might  consent  to  stay  for  three  years,"  Mr.  Lynne- 
ker  hazarded.  "That  would  still  make  it  possible  for  him 
to  go  up  to  Cambridge  at  twenty,  if  opportunity  offered." 

"May  I  write  to  you,  Mr.  Lynneker?"  Bell  asked. 

"Certainly;  by  all  means,"  the  Rector  returned,  snatch- 
ing at  the  chance  of  postponing  decision.  He  could  talk 
it  over  with  his  wife  and  Dickie,  he  thought.  It  was  so 
essential  to  consider  such  an  important  undertaking  from 
all  sides  before  making  a  decision. 

"By  all  means,  Bell,"  he  repeated.  "I'm  wasting  your 
time." 

As  he  drove  home  alone  in  the  Stanhope,  he  decided  that 
he  had  certainly  done  the  wise  thing  in  not  pledging  Dickie 
to  five  years'  service;  and  he  was,  also,  inclined  to  con- 
gratulate himself  on  the  compromise  he  had  effected  with 
regard  to  the  sale  of  stock — by  giving  instructions  to  sell 
only  one  share,  he  had  still  kept  intact  that  comfortable 
£1000  which  was  so  much  more  substantial  a  figure  than 
£900.  The  small  overdraft  might  be  made  good  by  putting 
a  little  pressure  on  the  tenant  of  the  Glebe  Farm,  who  owed 
arrears  that  would  more  than  wipe  out  the  balance.  That 
resource  was  always  in  reserve  and  had  never  yet  been 
called  upon. 

The  aroma  of  the  cigar,  he  always  smoked  as  he  drove 
home  from  Medborough,  seemed  to  him  rather  sweeter  than 
usual. 


70  THESE  LYNNEKERS 


in 

The  discussion  of  Dickie's  immediate  future  fluttered 
about  the  supper  table  that  evening;  and  the  comforting 
fact  that  nothing  could  be  "settled"  until  they  received 
Bell's  decision  with  regard  to  the  term  of  probation,  came 
continually  to  the  surface  and  gave  the  problem  the  air 
of  pleasant  unreality. 

"But  let  us  suppose,"  Adela  said  with  great  earnestness, 
"let  us  suppose  that  Mr.  Bell  says  he  must  go  for  five 
years,  what  then?" 

"What's  the  good  of  debating  on  an  uncertain  assump- 
tion?" asked  Latimer,  and  he  and  his  sister  nearly  quar- 
relled before  it  was  agreed  to  play  Adela's  game  for  a 
time. 

"It  settles  it  one  way,  in  any  case,"  she  concluded.  "If 
we  decide  that  he  ought  to  go  if  it's  to  be  for  five  years, 
he  would  certainly  go  if  it  were  only  for  three." 

"Suppose  that  we  decide  that  he  shouldn't,"  put  in 
Latimer.  He  was  divided  between  jealousy  of  Dickie's  abil- 
ity to  relieve  the  family  distress,  and  a  fear  that  he,  him- 
self, might  be  called  upon  to  throw  up  his  scholarship 
and  be  turned  out  without  a  degree  to  make  a  living  as 
an  assistant  master  in  some  preparatory  school.  Adela's 
opposition  was  merely  a  temporary  stimulus  to  range  him- 
self on  the  dissenting  side. 

The  weight  of  opinion  was  against  Adela  on  her  sup- 
position. 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  bind  him  for  so  long,"  Mr.  Lynneker 
said. 

"He'd  only  be  twenty-two  then,"  Adela  argued. 

"I  can't  picture  Dickie  as  being  twenty-two,"  her  mother 
interpolated  inconsequently.  She  had  a  vision  of  her  last 
baby  sturdily  trying  to  balance  himself  on  his  heels  at 
the  age  of  fourteen  months.  He  had  been  the  best  tempered 
of  all  her  babies  and  the  most  backward. 

When  that  side  issue  had  been  disposed  of  by  Adela's 


THE  LYNNEKER  METHOD  71 

description  of  her  little  brother  with  a  white  beard,  sign- 
ing Bank  of  England  notes,  they  returned  almost  unani- 
mously to  the  decision  that  five  years  was  too  long. 

Dickie,  himself,  took  little  part  in  the  game.  He  seemed 
to  think  his  immediate  duty  was  to  eat  a  reasonable  amount 
of  the  coarse  and  rather  muddy  bream  that  had  been  the 
one  important  trophy  of  the  fishing  expedition.  The  rest 
of  the  family  had  preferred  the  alternative  of  cutlets. 

"You  seem  to  like  it,"  Latimer  remarked  presently,  lean- 
ing forward  to  stare  with  critical  disapproval  across  the 
table. 

"It's  all  right,"  remarked  Dickie,  and  suddenly  decided 
that  he  had  done  all  that  was  required  of  him  in  that 
direction.  After  he  had  transferred  his  plate  and  the  re- 
mains of  the  bream  to  the  sideboard,  he  started  cheer- 
fully on  the  two  tepid  cutlets  that  had  been  kept  for 
him. 

"You  haven't  told  us  what  you  feel  about  it  all,  Dick," 
his  father  said. 

"Oh !  I'm  going  to  take  it  on,  of  course,"  replied  Dickie. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  should  care  to  pledge  you  for  five 
years,"  Mr.  Lynneker  submitted. 

"That'll  be  all  right,"  mumbled  Dickie.  Plainly  the 
bream  and  the  City  &  County  were  in  the  same  category 
as  far  as  he  was  concerned. 

"Of  course  you  don't  in  the  least  realise  what  you're 
going  to  do,"  Latimer  said;  and  his  mother  asked  her 
youngest  son  if  he  "really  thought  he  would  like  being 
in  a  Bank";  a  failure  to  understand  the  essential  issue 
that  had  the  effect  of  silencing  her  husband.  He  cherished 
the  certainty  that  Bell  would  be  reasonable  and  admit  the 
shorter  period  to  be  sufficient;  and  that  Dickie  would 
wonderfully  go  to  Cambridge  eventually,  as  a  Lynneker 
should. 

IV 

But  Mr.  Bell  was  firm  on  this  occasion.  His  letter  came 
the  next  morning,  and  in  defiance  of  precedent,  Adela 


72  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

begged  that  it  might  be  opened  at  the  breakfast-table.  The 
manager's  argument  was  perfectly  reasonable.  He  pointed 
out  that  in  a  small  local  Bank,  run  by  himself  with  only, 
at  present,  two  assistants,  it  was  impossible  so  to  divide 
the  work  that  the  junior  should  be  excluded  from  a  general 
knowledge  of  the  various  accounts;  a  reservoir  of  secrets 
that  was  of  the  utmost  importance  in  the  life  of  a  provincial 
town.  While  the  clerks  were  in  the  Bank's  employ,  they 
were  under  bond,  and  the  sense  of  their  fiduciary  capacity 
was  sufficient  to  keep  them  loyal  to  their  agreement.  But 
if  the  clerks  were  constantly  changed,  some  of  the  Bank's 
customers  might  reasonably  feel  uneasy.  In  Mr.  Lynne- 
ker's  case  there  could  be  no  reason  to  doubt  that  the  Bank's 
secrets  would  be  faithfully  kept,  but  unhappily  Mr.  Bell 
could  not  take  upon  himself  the  responsibility  of  creating 
a  new  precedent  in  this  connexion.  If  he  accepted  Mr. 
Richard  Lynneker,  at  the  end  of  three  years  another  of 
the  Bank's  clientele  might  be  offended  by  the  refusal  of 
similar  terms. 

None  of  the  Lynnekers  had  enough  knowledge  of  the 
usual  terms  of  employment  in  Banks  to  be  surprised  at 
Mr.  Bell's  stipulation.  They  approached  such  technicali- 
ties as  these  without  curiosity.  But  the  truth  of  the  matter 
was  that  the  manager  of  the  City  &  County  had  recently 
lost  two  accounts  owing  to  the  indiscretions  of  a  dismissed 
clerk.  The  affair  had  come  to  the  Directors  and  Brian 
Lessing,  the  chairman,  had  casually  suggested  the  advisa- 
bility of  not  employing  a  local  man,  except  under  a  five 
years'  agreement.  And  fresh  from  that  check  to  the  steady 
confirmation  of  his  tedious  achievements,  Mr.  Bell  had 
determined  to  observe  that  suggestion  with  the  greatest 
exactitude. 

The  Rector  exhibited  signs  of  annoyance  when  he  had 
read  the  letter  aloud  to  his  family;  and  more  particularly 
he  was  annoyed  with  Adela  for  her  insistence. 

"What  are  we  going  to  do,  now  ?"  she  asked  innocently ; 
and  her  father  snubbed  her  by  replying, 

"My  dear  child,  you  must  leave  that  question  to  me.'' 


THE  LYNNEKER  METHOD  73 

Latimer  looked  glum.  He  thought  the  general  outlook 
distinctly  unpromising,  and  when,  after  a  strained  silence, 
his  father  left  the  table,  announced  that  it  was  "all  up 
with  the  Bank  scheme." 

"The  pater's  got  his  knife  into  Bell  for  sticking  to  the 
five  years,"  he  explained. 

Dickie  looked  as  if  he  did  not  care  one  way  or  the  other, 
and  Mrs.  Lynneker  sighed  and  remarked  that  she  was 
not  altogether  sorry. 

"All  jolly  fine,  mater,"  Latimer  said,  "but  I  suppose  it 
means  my  going  down." 

"Of  course  you  don't  care  what  Dickie  has  to  do,  as 
long  as  you're  not  interfered  with,"  Adela  put  in  acidly ;  not 
because  she  wished  especially  to  champion  Dickie,  but 
because  she  was  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  relieve  her 
temper.  She  hated  to  be  snubbed  "before  people." 

Latimer  frowned  sulkily.  "It  isn't  that  at  all,"  he 
grumbled,  trying  to  think  of  some  reasonable  defence.  "I 
mean  it  isn't  as  if  Dickie  minds  going  into  the  Bank;  he's 
jolly  keen  on  it;  aren't  you,  Dickie?" 

"Not  particularly,"  Dickie  said  quietly. 

"There  you  are,"  snapped  Adela  as  if  she  had  scored 
a  point. 

"Well,  what  on  earth  are  you  so  set  on  it  for,  then?" 
asked  Latimer  suspiciously. 

"Somebody's  got  to  do  something,"  Dickie  returned. 
"We're  always  talking  about  things  and  nobody's  any 
further  at  the  end  of  it." 

He  had  no  sense  of  being  heroic  and  his  mother  em- 
barrassed him  when  she  said,  "You  are  always  doing  things, 
dear,"  and  added :  "We  expect  you  to  retrieve  the  family 
fortunes."  She  gave  her  speech  the  air  of  a  quotation  from 
popular  melodrama,  but  it  was  quite  clear  that  she  recog- 
nised in  her  youngest  son  some  quality  that  she  found  in 
neither  of  his  elder  brothers. 

"Oh!  Dickie's  a  wonderful  child,"  commented  Latimer. 
"He'll  probably  blunder  into  something  one  of  these  days." 

Dickie  dug  his  hands  into  his  trouser  pockets  and  grinned. 


74  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"Anyhow,  what  are  you  going  to  do,  now?"  asked 
Adela. 

"Go  into  the  Bank,"  returned  Dickie. 

"For  five  years?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

"And  if  the  pater  won't  let  you?" 

"He  will,"  Dickie  affirmed  confidently. 

"Are  you  going  in  to  see  him  about  it?"  asked  Latimer. 

Dickie  nodded. 

"Well,  look  here,  I  shouldn't  see  him  this  morning,  if 
I  were  you,"  was  Latimer's  advice.  "He's  fearfully  shirty 
with  Bell,  and  he'll  probably  refuse  to  discuss  it  with  you 
at  all.  You'd  miles  better  wait  until  he's  settled  down  a 
bit,  if  you  really  mean  to  stick  to  the  idea.  Don't  do  it 
to  please  me,  though,  for  goodness'  sake.  I  don't  care  a 
little  hang  one  way  or  the  other." 

"I  shouldn't  do  it  to  please  you,"  Dickie  replied  seriously, 
and  Adela  laughed  and  said,  "Good  old  Dickie." 

"I  know  you're  being  splendidly  heroic,"  snapped  Latimer. 

"Richard  to  the  rescue  of  the  family !"  put  in  Mrs.  Lynne- 
ker  gaily,  trying  to  divert  the  conversation  into  less  acri- 
monious courses.  "Richard  shall  go  and  fight  the  Med- 
borough  Saracens  for  us." 

"Well,  if  you  take  my  advice,  you  won't  see  the  pater 
this  morning,"  Latimer  concluded  and  left  the  room  before 
his  sister  could  make  any  further  assault  upon  him. 

"Latimer's  most  beastly  selfish,"  she  remarked. 

"Oh!  he's  all  right,"  Dickie  said,  adding  another  to  his 
list  of  tolerations.  "But  I'll  see  the  pater  now,"  he  added. 
"I  want  to  get  this  settled." 

His  mother  and  sister  regarded  him  with  open  admira- 
tion as  he  walked  across  the  hall  and  knocked  at  the  door 
of  his  father's  study. 


The  interview  was  brief  and  decisive. 

Mr.  Lynneker's  petulant  opposition  to  the  scheme  had 


THE  LYNNEKER  METHOD  75 

run  its  usual  course  and  produced  moral  fatigue.  His 
outbreak  of  annoyance  at  breakfast  had  marked  a  climax, 
and  now  he  wanted  to  be  on  easy  terms  again  with  his 
family.  He  knew  that  all  of  them,  with  the  possible  excep- 
tion of  his  wife,  would  approve  sending  Dickie  to  the 
Bank. 

He  recognised  the  strain  of  selfishness  that  prompted 
his  children's  inclination  and  was  aware  that  his  own 
motives  were  equally  biassed.  And  he  deprecated  that 
bias  and  in  his  own  futile  way  had  fought  against  it.  But, 
now,  he  was  willing  to  fall  back  on  the  excuse  that  cir- 
cumstances had  been  too  strong  for  him.  He  had  given 
Dick  every  chance  of  avoiding  this  derogatory  clerk- 
ship; if  the  boy  insisted  on  taking  it,  he  did  it  with  his 
eyes  open. 

This  last  evasion  was  the  immediate  palliative  that  pre- 
sented itself.  It  offered  the  excuse  for  a  perfectly  reason- 
able hesitation.  Dick's  eyes  must  be  clearly  opened;  he 
must  never  have  an  opportunity  to  say  that  he  had  been 
driven  into  this  slavery. 

When  Dickie's  knock  came  to  the  study  door  his  father 
was  already  prepared  and  he  welcomed  the  chance  to 
have  the  affair  settled  while  he  was  in  the  mood.  He  meant 
to  be  perfectly  just,  to  put  the  case  without  a  shadow  of 
prejudice. 

"Sit  down,  my  boy,"  he  said,  when  Dickie  had  come  in. 
"I  want  you  just  to  listen  to  me  for  a  few  moments." 

Dickie  accepted  both  invitations  without  comment.  He 
was  always  glad  to  be  treated  reasonably. 

There  were  but  two  arguments  to  be  explained,  and 
Mr.  Lynneker  found  that  both  could  be  briefly  stated. 
The  first  was  with  regard  to  Dickie's  future  career.  "This 
clerkship  may  prejudice  your  chances,"  was  the  effect  of 
that  statement.  "You  won't  want  to  begin  school  again 
at  twenty-two  by  taking  a  University  course,  and  you 
won't  be  prepared  for  any  of  the  professions." 

Dickie  nodded.  "Yes,  pater,  go  on,"  he  said.  "I  won't 
say  anything  until  you've  finished." 


76  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"The  second  point,  dear  boy,"  Mr.  Lynneker  continued, 
"is  that  I  feel  this  clerkship  is  rather  .  .  .  well,  a  little 
infra  dig.,  eh?  It  isn't  quite  an  occupation  I  should  have 
chosen  for  you.  Very  modern,  no  doubt;  but  I  confess 
that  it  rather  goes  against  the  grain  .  .  ."  he  paused  un- 
decidedly, as  if  uncertain  whether  he  had  said  enough 
under  that  head. 

"I  don't  see  that  that  matters  much,  does  it?"  Dickie 
said,  as  his  father  still  hesitated. 

"You  wouldn't  feel  that  you  would  be  losing  posi- 
tion .  .  ."  Mr.  Lynneker  began. 

"I  don't  mean  to  stick  to  it  after  the  five  years,  you 
see,"  Dickie  explained.  "I  don't  know  whether  Mr.  Bell 
ought  to  be  told  that.  Perhaps  he  ought.  But  I'm  not  a 
slacker,  you  know,  pater.  I'm  going  to  work  in  my  own 
time  while  I'm  in  the  Bank ;  and  I  expect  in  a  year  or  two 
I'll  know  better  what  sort  of  thing  to  go  in  for.  I  haven't 
thought  of  anything  yet,  except  astronomy.  Really  I  only 
thought  of  that  because  it  seemed  to  give  some  kind  of 
chance  to  a  chap  who  was  any  good  at  maths,  like  J.  C. 
Adams,  you  know.  And,  anyhow,  I  think  I'd  feel  more 
comfortable  if  I  was  earning  something." 

"It  might  be  possible  to  find  another  opening  for  you," 
Mr.  Lynneker  ventured. 

"This  one  is  all  ready  and  I  might  begin  at  once,"  Dickie 
returned.  "I  mean,  wouldn't  it  be  rather  a  waste  of  time 
looking  about  for  something  else?  I  don't  see  that  the 
Bank's  half  bad.  They're  shortish  hours,  anyhow.  Oh ! 
and,  pater,  I've  been  thinking,  wouldn't  it  be  a  jolly  good 
thing  for  me  to  get  a  bicycle,  not  a  high  wheel,  mater's 
so  funky  about  them.  I  could  get  a  "safety"  at  Pearson's 
for  about  eight  quid  and  it  would  save  the  price  of  the 
season-ticket  and  any  amount  of  time.  If  you  could  ad- 
vance the  money,  I  could  pay  you  back  out  of  my  screw, 
you  know." 

"We  might  think  about  it,  certainly,"  his  father  agreed. 

"Give  me  a  certain  amount  of  ekkers,  too,"  added  Dickie, 
piling  up  his  argument.  He  had  picked  up  the  abbrevia- 


THE  LYNNEKER  METHOD  77 

tion  of  exercise  from  Edward,  who  had  had  a  bad  attack 
of  cutting  his  words  and  adding  "er"  to  the  stem  during 
his  first  year  at  Cambridge. 

Mr.  Lynneker  agreed  that  the  safety  bicycle  was  un- 
questionably an  idea  that  must  be  considered.  He  was, 
indeed,  planning  to  give  Dickie  ten  pounds  to  buy  it — 
another  salve  for  his  conscience — but  that  was  to  be  a  "sur- 
prise." Meanwhile  he  had  to  write  to  Barnard. 


VI 

Dr.  Barnard  extorted  no  penalty.  He  was  able  to  fill 
the  one  empty  place  in  his  own  house,  even  at  that  eleventh 
hour,  and  when  he  had  made  certain  of  that,  he  wrote 
a  very  charming  letter  to  express  his  regret  that  so  promis- 
ing a  boy  as  Richard  Lynneker  should  be  leaving  the  school 
just  when  he  seemed  to  have  overcome  various  tempera- 
mental disabilities  and  to  be  well  on  the  way  to  a  scholar- 
ship. 

Mr.  Lynneker  kept  that  letter  among  certain  other  treas- 
ured papers. 

And  for  many  months  he  had  moments,  decreasing  in 
poignancy  as  time  went  on,  in  which  he  saw  again  the 
visions  of  that  triumphant  speech-day;  and  wondered  if 
he  might  not  have  made  some  sacrifice  to  give  his  youngest 
son  a  better  chance. 

The  only  confidence  he  gave  to  his  wife  was  contained 
in  the  remark  that  "the  dear  boy  had  been  so  splendid 
about  it  all." 

Mrs.  Lynneker  agreed  with  enthusiasm.  Dickie's  em- 
ployment had  made  a  difference  of  £160  a  year  in  their 
income,  and  she  was  permitting  herself  and  Adela  a  few 
minor  extravagances. 


V 
MEDBOROUGH 


AMONG  the  outstanding  influences  that  marked  the 
course  of  his  life  during  the  next  two  years,  Dickie 
would  probably  have  given  an  important  place  to  the  pur- 
chase of  his  bicycle.  That  machine — a  second-hand  "Rover" 
safety,  with  cushion  tyres — gave  him  independence,  and 
curiously  linked  the  diverse  experiences  of  Medborough  and 
Halton.  .  .  . 

Medborough  took  on  a  new  aspect  when  he  went  to  work 
there.  Until  then,  it  had  made  other  claims  on  his  at- 
tention. He  remembered  it  first  as  a  place  where  one  had 
tea  and  enticingly  unfamiliar  cakes  at  Hopkinson's,  the 
confectioner  in  Broad  Street — comparatively  rare  celebra- 
tions for  him,  as  the  Stanhope  would  only  hold  four,  and 
Edward,  Latimer  and  his  two  sisters  were  given  the  prece- 
dence due  to  seniority.  Usually  he  had  gone  in  alone  with 
his  mother,  by  train,  on  those  occasions. 

More  recently  Medborough  had  been  regarded  either  as 
a  shopping  centre  that  offered  many  attractive  things, — 
tools,  bicycles  and  guns,  for  example, — all  quite  beyond 
reach ;  or  as  a  place  of  diversion.  He  had  been  in  to 
hear  Corney  Grain  at  the  Drill  Hall,  or  to  see  a  cricket- 
match. 

But  in  all  these  aspects,  the  town  had  been  a  rather 
remote,  perfectly  distinct  place,  to  be  visited  only  in  holi- 
day mood ;  a  place  of  objective  men  and  women,  mainly 
shopkeepers,  who  were  never  visualised  as  moving  from 
their  counters  or  as  having  any  other  interests  and  man- 

78 


MEDBOROUGH  79 

ners  than  those  they  displayed  to  customers.  The  exceptions 
were  almost  exclusively  cathedral  clergy,  encountered  cas- 
ually in  the  street,  or  living  in  grey  stone  and  old  red 
brick  houses  within  the  precincts;  houses  that  opened 
ecclesiastical,  nail-studded  front  doors  to  receive  his  father 
and  mother,  possibly  Edward  and  his  two  sisters,  but  were 
barred  against  gauche,  rather  untidily  dressed  schoolboys 
of  fifteen  or  so,  who  were  left  to  wander  about  the  cloisters 
or  stare  in  at  the  windows  of  Bailey,  the  ironmonger. 

The  first  day  in  the  Bank  altered  these  impressions  for 
Dickie. 

Alfred  Bailey,  himself,  the  owner  of  those  amazingly  at- 
tractive tools  he  so  carelessly  displayed,  came  into  the  City 
&  County  early  on  Monday  morning,  and  nodded  to  Dickie 
at  his  side  desk  as  to  an  equal.  Mr.  Bailey  was  no  longer 
a  servant  waiting  upon  small  Lynneker  demands,  with  a 
placatory  smile,  but  a  customer  with  a  respectable  account, 
a  man  to  be  propitiated  by  the  employee  of  the  Bank. 

The  unexpectedness  of  the  phenomenon  demanded  at- 
tention. 

At  the  moment  Dickie  was  inclined  to  resent  the  fa- 
miliarity of  that  casual  nod.  It  had  no  precedent  in  his 
experience.  He  was  accustomed  to  the  subservience  of 
all  Medborough  trades-people,  and  to  some  hint  of  respect 
from  any  member  of  what  he  had  been  led  to  regard  as 
the  lower  classes.  He  had  had  no  preparation  for  this 
sudden  sweeping  away  of  social  barriers.  Mr.  Bell  had 
been  properly  polite  in  his  reception  of  the  Bank's  new 
clerk.  There  had  been  no  perceptible  change  in  his  manner 
that  morning. 

Dickie  returned  the  nod  with  a  touch  of  hauteur,  and 
occupied  himself  with  the  simple  copying  of  figures  that 
was  to  be  his  introduction  to  the  complexities  of  book- 
keeping. 

But  Mr.  Bailey  was  not  to  be  dismissed  so  easily.  After 
he  had  announced  that  he  was  going  to  Sheffield  that  after- 
noon, and  had  taken  ten  pounds  in  gold  to  cash  the  cheque 


80  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

he  presented,  he  looked  across  at  Dickie's  corner  and  re- 
marked in  a  resonant  voice, 

"Got  a  new  clerk,  Bell." 

"We've  been  understaffed  for  the  last  three  months," 
Mr.  Bell  replied. 

"Oh !"  commented  Mr.  Bailey,  and  then  directly  address- 
ing Dickie,  he  said,  "Young  Mr.  Lynneker,  isn't  it?" 

Mr.  Bell  turned  round  and  Dickie  understood  that  he  was 
expected  to  reply. 

"Yes,  my  name  is  Lynneker,"  he  said. 

"I've  known  your  father  this  thirty  year,"  stated  Mr. 
Bailey,  "and  I  think  I  remember  seein'  you  in  my  shop 
a  time  or  two." 

"I've  bought  a  few  tools  there,"  Dickie  admitted. 

"Fond  of  carpent'ring  ?"  asked  Bailey. 

"I  do  a  little,"  Dickie  said. 

Mr.  Bailey  nodded  and  carefully  stowed  away  his  gold 
in  a  flatleather  purse.  Then  he  pressed  his  square-crowned, 
hard  felt  hat  a  little  more  firmly  on  his  head,  pulled 
down  his  waistcoat,  gave  another  nod  to  the  office  in 
general,  said,  "Well,  good  mornin'  to  you,  gentlemen," 
and  went  out. 

Mr.  Bell  continued  his  work  without  making  any  com- 
ment. 

Dickie  ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  and  as  he  pro- 
ceeded with  his  mechanical  copying,  came  to  some  con- 
sideration of  the  difficult  proposition  that  Alfred  Bailey 
was  not  a  public-serving  automaton,  but  an  individual  to 
be  considered  and,  if  necessary,  propitiated  by  a  member  of 
the  old  and  aristocratic  family  of  Lynneker. 

Mr.  Bailey  had  come  wonderfully  to  life.  Dickie  re- 
membered, now,  that  he  had  heard  the  ironmonger's  name 
mentioned  as  a  probable  candidate  for  the  mayoralty.  Also, 
he  was  a  churchwarden  of  St.  Peter's,  the  parish  church 
of  Medborough. 

And  with  Mr.  Bailey's  sudden  development  into  a  person 
of  consequence,  Medborough  itself  began  strangely  to  grow 
and  take  a  new  form.  It  no  longer  wore  the  air  of  an 


MEDBOROUGH  81 

amusing  dependency  of  Halton,  but  had  become  the  centre 
of  a  large  circle  of  the  dim  circumference  of  which  were 
dozens  of  little  parishes  such  as  that  from  which  Dickie 
had  ridden  out  that  morning.  Halton,  Thrapley,  Allerton, 
Great  and  Little  Milton,  and  all  the  rest  of  those  more 
or  less  familiar  villages,  were  from  the  Medborough  trades- 
man's point  of  view  so  many  sources  of  custom,  and 
comparatively  unimportant,  even  so. 


ii 

And  there  was  Bradshaw.  .  .  . 

Dickie  had  seen  him  in  the  town  a  few  weeks  before 
and  had  commented  on  his  appearance  to  Latimer,  who 
had  not  observed  the  odd  phenomenon,  or  thought  it  be- 
neath his  notice;  had  not,  in  any  case,  displayed  the  least 
interest. 

"That  was  a  rum  looking  chap,"  had  been  Dickie's  descrip- 
tion; and  Mark  Bradshaw's  appearance  certainly  deserved 
some  distinctive  adjective. 

Ordinary  people  of  Bradshaw's  physique  would  be  de- 
scribed as  tall  and  thin;  he  demanded  some  less  human 
account  such  as  long  and  narrow.  His  little  shoulders 
were  perfectly  square  and  he  gave  the  effect  of  being 
parallel-sided,  just  an  unduly  protracted  square  slip  of 
a  man  who  could  never  be  likened  to  anything  so  rounded 
as  a  lamp-post. 

And  as  a  superfluous  addition  to  that  extended  parallelo- 
gram he  had  a  long  narrow  face  with  a  square  jaw  and 
more  chin  than  the  strongest  face  could  carry  without 
an  effect  of  exaggeration;  an  expanse  of  chin  that  dis- 
tracted the  attention  from  the  attempt  at  balance  contrived 
by  an  almost  perfectly  square  box  of  forehead. 

Between  those  rival  spaces  a  small  mouth,  a  short, 
straight  nose  and  little  bright  brown  eyes  were  hope- 
lessly tucked  away  and  neglected.  These  peculiarities  would 
have  been  sufficient  eccentricity  for  any  one  but  the  de- 


82  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

signer  of  Mark  Bradshaw,  but  by  way  of  completing  the 
grotesque,  his  hair  had  been  arranged  in  three  separate 
waves,  one  over  each  ear  and  one  down  the  centre  of  his 
head,  and  these  curling  tufts  were  separated  from  each 
other  by  neat  bald  pathways  like  very  wide  partings. 

He  had  been  bare-headed  when  Dickie  had  seen  him 
in  the  Market  Place,  and  any  one  less  preoccupied  than 
Latimer  (he  had  just  been  buying  ties)  must  have  been 
startled  into  the  search  for  an  adjective.  Dickie  was 
aware  that  "rum-looking"  was  quite  inadequate;  but  he 
had  not  attempted  any  more  detailed  experiment  to  recall 
the  abstracted  attention  of  his  brother.  Latimer  was  not 
interested  in  the  peculiarities  of  "common  people." 

It  was  an  immense  shock  to  Dickie  to  find  that  this  queer- 
looking  fellow  was  to  be  his  colleague  in  the  Bank.  The 
fact  had  all  the  air  of  an  astonishing  coincidence,  and 
Dickie  pondered  it  and  tentatively  classified  it  as  belong- 
ing to  the  same  class  as  the  vivifying  of  Mr.  Bailey.  Once 
or  twice  he  glanced  covertly  in  Bradshaw's  direction, 
ashamed  to  look  at  him  openly,  as  he  might  have  been 
ashamed  of  staring  at  some  crippling  disfigurement. 

But  that  problem,  at  least,  was  solved  for  him  when 
Mr.  Bell  went  upstairs  to  his  dinner  at  a  quarter  past 
twelve,  leaving  the  senior  clerk,  Cartwright,  in  charge. 

There  were  no  depositors  in  the  Bank  at  that  moment, 
and  Bradshaw  got  up  when  Mr.  Bell  went  out,  walked 
across  the  office  and  took  a  vacant  stool  next  to  Dickie. 

"Shoo!"  remarked  Bradshaw,  and  when  Dickie  looked 
up,  began  very  solemnly  to  waggle  his  amazing  chin. 

"Have  a  good  look,  and  get  used  to  it,"  he  said.  "You'll 
find  that  the  pain  relaxes  after  a  few  minutes.  Some 
people  find  this  contortion  more  engaging/'  he  added,  and 
shot  out  his  chin  in  an  extraordinary  grimace  that  entirely 
finished  Dickie. 

"Oh!  Good  Lord,"  he  exclaimed,  and  was  overtaken 
with  a  convulsion  of  laughter. 

"Better,  better ;"  Bradshaw  prompted  him.  "You're  pass- 
ing the  crisis  nicely.  I've  known  young  children  scream 


MEDBOROUGH  83 

and  faint  for  less.  Try  another  position!"  And  he  pro- 
ceeded to  exhibit  the  further  possibilities  of  that  astonish- 
ing face  of  his. 

"Oh !  don't,"  gasped  Dickie.  "I  shall  have  a  fit  or  some- 
thing/' 

Cartwright,  with  his  back  to  the  counter,  looked  on  with 
interested  amusement. 

"Cartwright  has  reached  the  point  of  enduring,  even  of 
enjoying  the  sight  of  my  misfit,  you  notice,"  Bradford 
said,  when  Dickie  had  reached  a  stage  of  weeping  recovery. 
"I've  been  a  little  brutal  with  you,  because  it  saves  time 
and  misunderstandings.  I've  found  that  it's  no  good  trying 
to  talk  to  people  until  they've  passed  the  phase  of  trying 
to  giggle  without  my  seeing  ''em.  And  I  like  talking  to 
people.  Feeling  any  better  ?  Hm  ?" 

"I  shall  be  all  right  if  you  won't  do  things  with  it, 
you  know,"  Dickie  said,1  still  balanced  on  the  verge  of 
hysterical  laughter. 

"Gross  flattery,"  commented  Bradshaw.  "I  know  I'm  a 
freak,  man.  For  God's  sake  don't  be  polite.  I  see  the 
girls  in  the  street  nudge  each  other  when  they  see  me 
coming.  And  when  I  take  off  my  hat  to  'em,  they're 
finished.  They  have  to  hold  each  other  up,  or  else  lean 
against  a  wall  and  give  way  to  it.  Once  I  sang  'Beauty's 
Eyes'  at  a  concert  in  the  Drill  Hall,  and  if  Corney  Grain 
had  been  there  he'd  have  chucked  the  funny  business  for 
sheer  shame;  Corney  Grain's  recitals  were  like  a  prayer- 
meeting  alongside  of  the  reception  I  had  for  'Beauty's 
Eyes.'  When  I  got  to  'I  need  no  star  in  Heaven  to  guide 
me,'  the  bobby  in  the  Minster  Yard  half  a  mile  away  let 
off  as  fast  as  he  could  go  for  the  mayor  to  read  the  riot 
act,  and  I've  heard  he  rang  up  the  fire  station  on  the  way 
to  be  on  the  safe  side." 

"Oh !  for  goodness'  sake,  shut  up,"  gasped  Dickie. 

Cartwright,  a  fair,  young  man  with  smooth  hair,  listened 
with  a  fixed,  attentive  smile.  "He  ought  to  go  on  the 
stage,"  he  remarked,  when  Bradshaw  stopped,  "as  a  popular 
entertainer.  I've  often  told  him  he'd  make  his  fortune." 


84  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

Bradshaw  shook  his  head  and  pressed  his  button  mouth 
into  a  thin  line.  Dickie  fancied  he  saw  some  suggestion 
of  pathos  in  the  bright  little  brown  eyes,  but  Cartwright, 
who  had  only  smiled  before,  suddenly  broke  into  a  cackle 
of  laughter. 

"Gosh,  Braddie,  you  are  a  licker,"  he  said,  wiping 
his  eyes. 

The  creak  of  the  outer  pair  of  swing  doors  leading  to 
the  street  interrupted  the  comedy.  Cartwright  was  in- 
stantly at  attention,  suave  and  eager  as  a  shop- walker; 
while  Bradshaw  got  to  his  feet  and  turning  his  back  on 
the  counter,  leaned  over  Dickie's  ledger  as  if  he  were 
deeply  engaged  in  the  Company's  business. 

"Cartwright  goes  to  his  lunch  when  Mr.  Bell  comes  in," 
he  observed  in  an  undertone,  "and  when  Cartwright  re- 
turns at  a  quarter  to  two  sharp,  I  go.  I  bring  sandwiches 
with  me  and  eat  'em  in  the  boot-cupboard,  and  then  ex- 
hibit myself  for  half  an  hour  in  order  to  put  Medborough 
in  a  good  temper."  Then  he  went  on  in  a  louder  voice, 
"Have  you  checked  the  cast  on  each  slip?  You  ought  to 
and  tick  'em  again.  Merely  a  matter  of  form,  but  nothing 
counts  as  passed  till  it's  been  ticked  twice.  You  can  go 
out  when  you  like,  you're  merely  an  accessory  at  present; 
and  I  was  going  to  suggest  that  you  might  join  my  pro- 
cession if  you  can  bear  it." 

"I  should  like  to,"  Dickie  said. 


in 

That  walk  after  lunch  added  another  to  Dickie's  new 
impressions  of  Medborough. 

As  they  crossed  the  Market  Place,  Bradshaw  was  still 
playing  the  fool  for  his  companion's  benefit.  He  took  off 
his  hat  to  two  young  women  they  met,  stuck  out  his  chin 
and  made  a  stiff,  elaborate  bow;  a  performance  that  cer- 
tainly had  the  effect  of  making  the  young  women  giggle, 
although  they  looked,  also,  a  trifle  scared,  and  looked  back 


MEDBOROUGH  85 

once  or  twice  with  a  faint  apprehension  after  they  had 
passed. 

But  when  they  came  into  the  Minster  Yard,  Bradshaw 
looked  keenly  at  Dickie  and  said : 

"Struck  me  when  I  first  saw  you,  Lynneker,  that  you 
weren't  one  of  the  giggling  sort." 

"I  don't  think  I1  am,"  agreed  Dickie. 

''May  seem  a  paradox  to  you,"  Bradshaw  went  on,  "but 
I'm  not  altogether  stuck  on  the  funny  business.  It's  been 
forced  on  me,  you  see.  I've  got  into  a  way  of  sticking 
my  chin  through  a  collar,  if  you  follow  me,  to  give  people 
an  excuse  for  laughing." 

"I  couldn't  help  it  this  morning,"  Dickie  apologised. 

"Naturally.  I  could  set  you  off  again,  now,  if  I  wanted 
to,"  Bradshaw  returned,  exhibiting  a  curious  pride  in  t!ie 
power  he  had  just  been  depreciating.  "I'm  not  always  in 
the  mood,  you  understand,  but  when  I  lay  myself  out  .  .  ." 
He  paused  as  if  doubtful  whether  he  would  not,  now,  make 
further  experiment  on  Dickie,  and  then  looked  up  at  the 
great  West  Front  of  the  Cathedral,  waved  his  hand  vaguely 
and  said : 

"Mean  anything  to  you,  this  sort  of  thing?" 

"The  Cathedral?"  asked  Dickie. 

The  afternoon  sun  cast  great  shadows  into  the  depths  of 
the  three  immense  arches  of  the  West  Front.  The  delicate, 
serene  mass  of  it  towered  overwhelmingly  higher  than 
the  buildings  of  the  old  King's  School  and  the  houses 
on  the  south  side  of  the  Minster  Yard.  The  row  of  great 
elms  on  the  north  side,  straining  against  the  assault  of  the 
bright  October  gale,  were  dwarfed  into  insignificance ;  and 
the  little  figures  of  men  and  women  dotted  about  the  paths 
that  cut  the  neat  grass  of  the  yard  into  sharp  rhombuses 
and  triangles,  were  so  utterly  remote  and  small,  it  seemed 
incredible  that  that  great  elevation  could  have  been  built  by 
the  hands  of  so  petty  a  race. 

Bradshaw  nodded. 

"I  don't  know  that  it  does/'  Dickie  said.  "It's  never 
struck  me  particularly.  Does  it  mean  anything  to  you?" 


86  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

Bradshaw's  grotesque  face  was  absurdly  solemn  as  he 
replied.  "Doesn't  it  impress  you?"  he  asked. 

"In  what  way?"  asked  the  rather  puzzled  Dickie. 

"Of  course,  if  you  don't  feel  it  .  .  ."  returned  Brad- 
shaw. 

"Never  thought  about  it,"  Dickie  admitted. 

"Well,  even  on  its  historical  side  .  .  ." 

"What  historical  side?" 

"As  a  piece  of  building." 

"Go  on,"  Dickie  said. 

"The  nave's  Norman,  you  know,"  Bradshaw  explained, 
"and  then  a  hundred  years  or  so  later  a  fresh  lot  of  beg- 
gars, monks  I  suppose,  came  along  and  just  jabbed  that 
front  on  to  the  end  of  it.  They  didn't  bother  particularly 
to  make  it  fit,  or  to  make  any  sort  of  match  with  the  old 
stuff,  they  just  barged  in  and  built  that.  That's  the  way 
they  felt  about  building  a  cathedral.  Pretty  well  got  it, 
too,  didn't  they?  Dignity  and  solemnity  and  all  that. 

"Then,  another  couple  of  hundred  years  after  them 
some  silly  idiots  built  that  porch  into  the  middle  arch. 
Pity!  And  now  the  whole  affair's  supposed  to  be  falling 
forwards  and  they're  talking  of  tying  it  in  with  steel  girders. 
That's  history  enough,  isn't  it?  Can't  you  see  the  little 
fellows  swarming  about  all  over  it  like  flies  on  a  house- 
front,  chipping  and  hammering, — tiny  little  chaps  they  must 
have  looked  up  there,  and  yet  they  left  that  behind  'em 
when  they'd  done.  Terrific,  I  call  it." 

Dickie  felt  slightly  uncomfortable.  He  was  not  ripe 
yet  for  the  tremendous  bouleversement  necessary  before 
he  could  cease  to  regard  Medborough  Cathedral  as  among 
the  classified  things, — such  as  Csesar's  Gallic  Wars  or  the 
signing  of  Magna  Carta, — and  look  upon  it  as  a  magic 
memorial  of  his  ancestors'  thought  and  feeling. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  an  awful  duffer  at  architecture,"  he  said 
with  a  schoolboy  sheepishness.  "Are  you  keen  on  it?" 

"Oh!  architecture  and  lots  of  other  subjects  like  that 
interest  me,"  Bradshaw  returned  airily.  "I  like  to  imagine 


MEDBOROUGH  87 

the  things  happening.  The  cloisters,  now.  You  know  about 
them,  of  course?" 

"I  don't,"  confessed  Dickie. 

Bradshaw,  with  one  of  his  odd,  stiff  gestures,  hooked 
him  by  the  arm.  "Oh!  that  ought  to  wake  you  up,  any- 
how," he  said. 

But  when  he  reached  the  cloisters,  he  paused  before  he 
began  his  exposition  and  pointed  up  at  the  vast  enclos- 
ing solidity  of  the  nave  and  South  transept. 

"I  always  feel  about  half  a  centimetre  high,  when  I  stand 
here,"  he  remarked. 

"It  is  tremendous,"  agreed  Dickie. 

"The  tower's  new,  of  course,"  Bradshaw  went  on.  "It 
was  all  pulled  down  and  rebuilt  a  few  years  ago  and  they 
added  those  pepper-castors  at  the  corners.  Don't  like  'em 
much,  do  you?" 

They  stood  for  a  few  moments  craning  their  necks  to 
stare  up  at  the  impending  cliff  of  grey  masonry — the  newly- 
built  tower,  above,  shone  cream  white  on  the  rain-washed 
sunlight  of  the  windy  October  afternoon. 

"Fine,  don't  you  think?"  asked  Bradshaw. 

"Yes,  it  is  fine,"  Dickie  said.  "I  don't  seem  to  have  no- 
ticed it  like  this,  before." 

"Oh!  you'll  get  to  like  it  more  and  more,"  Bradshaw 
said  with  enthusiasm.  "And  the  cloisters,  ajl  smashed  up 
by  Cromwell's  fellows  in  1643.  Can't  you  see  'em  at  it? 
Burnt  the  best  part  of  this  bit,  of  course.  All  that  black 
stuff's  the  mark  of  the  fire.  You  can't  get -it  off  with  your 
finger.  It  has  just  stained  the  stone,  I  suppose;  all  the 
cindery  stuff  been  washed  off  years  ago,  no  doubt." 

Dickie  had  always  assumed  that  the  comparatively  low 
stone  wall  of  the  quadrangle,  with  its  niches  and  blackened 
carving,  had  been  originally  built  like  that.  No  one  had 
ever  enlightened  him,  and  he  had  taken  the  cloisters  for 
granted  together  with  the  rest  of  the  Cathedral  and  its 
precincts.  And,  although  he  was  too  callow,  as  yet,  to 
suffer  any  great  change  of  attitude,  even  on  that  first 
day  in  Medborough  he  began  to  have  some  suspicion  that 


88  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

many  of  the  things  he  had  hitherto  despised  as  "tosh" 
might  possibly  be  worth  knowing. 

The  thought  passed  through  his  mind,  as  Bradshaw 
warmed  to  his  reconstruction  of  the  past  and  attempted 
a  picture  of  Cromwell's  Ironsides  ravishing  the  interior 
of  the  Minster; — passed,  and  left  an  ineradicable  trace  of 
its  passage. 

"You  can't  blame  'em.  in  a  way,"  Bradshaw  concluded. 
"They  were  up  against  every  sort  of  toggery;  and  just 
wild  with  all  Roman  Catholic  and  Cavalier  notions — sort 
of  different  race  to  them — lost  their  wool  completely  like 
the  people  in  the  French  Revolution.  I  say  it's  time  we 
went  back,  old  man." 


IV 

Other  people  in  Medborough  came  to  life  for  Dickie  on 
that  first  day  in  the  City  &  County.  There  was,  for  in- 
stance, a  whisper  behind  the  Bank  counter  that  young 
Wetherall,  who  owned  the  big  draper's  business  in  Priest- 
gate,  could  not  hang  on  much  longer.  Apparently  the  Bank 
knew  what  no  one  else  in  the  town  had  guessed,  namely, 
that  young  Wetherall  had  been  speculating  foolishly  in 
mining  stocks.  His  inner  financial  history  was  all  written 
in  the  City  &  County's  ledgers  and  any  one  who  was  skilled 
in  the  use  of  those  mysterious  volumes  might  read  the 
story  of  young.  Wetherall's  life. 

Nothing  could  be  hidden  from  the  quiet  eyes  of  Mr. 
Bell.  He  knew  the  secret  history  of  the  town's  business 
and  never  suggested  the  profundity  of  his  knowledge  by 
so  much  as  a  change  of  manner.  When  some  unfortunate, 
who  had  long  been  marked  down  as  unsafe,  came  to  beg 
the  privilege  of  an  overdraft,  he  was  refused  with  just 
that  same  air  of  deference  with  which  the  manager  wel- 
comed an  original  shareholder,  or  my  Lord,  the  Bishop. 

For  those  remorseless  columns  of  figures  gave  entrance 
even  to  the  private  life  of  the  Palace.  They  were  full  of 


MEDBOROUGH  89 

the  strangest  significance,  a  hieroglyphic  character  reveal- 
ing mysteries  that  no  other  records  could  show.  The  per- 
mutations of  those  ten  numerals  could  express  the  depths 
of  tragedy  more  surely  than  any  language;  the  misery  of 
the  steadily  declining  balance,  the  effort  expressed  by  the 
reduction  in  the  amounts  of  those  weekly  cheques  payable 
to  self;  the  final  horror  of  that  terrible  draft  for  a  few 
shillings  to  close  the  account.  But  after  that  the  investi- 
gator was  faced  by  a  blank  silence.  The  Bank  knew  nothing 
of  the  unfortunate  depositor's  future; — in  the  hieroglyphic 
character  bankruptcy  was  death. 

Dickie  did  not  come  at  once  to  any  appreciation  of  the 
occult  significance  of  the  books  in  his  charge.  As  junior 
ledger  clerk,  he  had  no  means  of  collating  his  items,  and 
could  strike  no  financial  or  moral  balance.  He  did  not, 
at  first,  have  access  to  that  collection  of  dossiers,  bound 
in  white  parchment,  where  the  private  life  of  the  indi- 
vidual was  recorded  in  the  convenient  ciphers  that  were 
the  Bank's  sole  means  of  expression,  the  only  language 
of  which  it  took  any  account.  But  the  astounding  novelty 
of  it  all  impressed  him  with  a  sense  of  new  values,  and 
the  sight  of  his  bicycle  standing  in  the  back  premises  of 
the  City  &  County,  was  like  the  vision  of  some  forgotten 
thing  coming  up  out  of  the  past. 

During  the  past  ten  days,  that  bicycle  had  gathered  to 
itself  a  group  of  associations  with  Halton  Rectory.  He 
had  discussed  it  with  Latimer,  cleaned  it  in  the  stable 
yard  with  Adela  as  an  interested  onlooker.  The  sight  of 
the  crank  cotter  he  had  hammered  and  slightly  damaged, 
immediately  recalled  her  enquiry  as  to  why  women  should 
not  ride  bicycles;  and  their  subsequent  discussion  in  which 
Adela  had  advocated  some  kind  of  rational  costume  and 
he  had  suggested  that  the  frame  of  the  safety  might  be 
adapted  to  suit  the  inconvenience  of  skirts. 

And  when  he  had  mounted  and  ridden  down  the  cob- 
bled streets  of  Medborough,  had  safely  passed  the  two  level 
crossings  of  the  Great  Northern  Railway  and  was  able 
to  increase  his  pace  on  the  excellent  surface  of  the  Thrap- 


90  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

ley  road,  the  day's  experiences  began  to  fall  into  an  altered 
perspective.  The  recognitions  of  individuality  in  Mr.  Bailey, 
young  Wetherall  and  the  Cathedral;  the  odd  appearance 
and  personality  of  Bradshaw,  the  smell  of  the  calf-bound 
ledgers,  all  began  to  take  a  new  shape.  They  were  falling 
into  Halton  classifications.  In  a  few  minutes  he  would 
cease  to  be  a  bank  clerk,  subject  to  the  casual  greeting 
of  ironmongers  and  drapers,  and  would  return  without 
effort  to  his  position  as  the  youngest  son  of  the  Rector 
— the  villagers  would  touch  their  hats  to  him  as  he  rode 
past. 

Between  those  two  different  worlds,  the  bicycle  flung 
a  bridge.  When  he  saw  it  standing  in  the  coach-house  at 
home  it  reminded  him  of  the  Bank.  When  he  was  in 
Medborough  it  was  full  of  associations  with  Halton.  The 
bicycle  stood  to  him  as  a  symbol,  something  that  shared 
his  two  lives  and  in  some  sense  related  them. 


VI 
THE  BEGINNING  OF  REASON 


IF  Dickie  had  been  a  mathematical  genius  such  as  his 
hero,  J.  C.  Adams,  he  might  have  walked  into  that 
enceinte  of  particular  learning  which  confines  the  out- 
look of  the  specialist.  At  Oakstone  he  had  been  distin- 
guished inasmuch  as  he  was,  at  seventeen,  unquestionably 
the  best  mathematician  in  the  school ;  a  distinction  that  had 
tended  to  impress  upon  him  a  false  scale  of  values.  He 
had  dreamed  vaguely  of  becoming  senior  wrangler,  and  of 
discovering  a  ninth  major  planet  circling  behind  the  orbit 
of  Neptune. 

He  came  to  a  recognition  of  his  own  limitations  during 
the  first  six  months  of  his  work  at  the  Bank.  The  promise 
to  read  in  his  spare  time  was  scrupulously  fulfilled.  He 
read  for  two  hours  every  morning  before  breakfast,  and 
all  that  winter  denied  himself  the  invigoration  of  his  half- 
mile  morning  run  down  to  the  river.  (In  his  taste  for 
cold  water,  at  least,  he  was  his  father's  son.  Mr.  Lynneker 
had  bathed  in  the  river  every  morning  summer  and  winter 
until  he  was  sixty,  and  still  went  in  the  warmer  weather. 
Edward  and  Latimer  had  never  accompanied  him  during 
the  Christmas  holidays;  and  Dickie  had  been  too  young 
then,  but  he  had  taken  up  the  tradition  on  his  own  account 
when  he  was  fifteen.)  In  addition  to  these  two  quiet  hours 
before  breakfast,  he  put  in  another  hour  and  a  half  before 
supper,  and  if  he  took  that  time  for  cleaning  his  bicycle  or 
for  some  odd  job  of  carpentering,  he  worked  from  half-past 
eight  until  half -past  ten,  with  an  interval  of  a  quarter  of 

91 


92  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

an  hour  for  family  prayers.  Also,  there  was  the  Thurs- 
day half-holiday,  and  he  worked,  surreptitiously,  on  Sun- 
days. 

Adela  and  his  mother  occasionally  urged  that  he  was 
overdoing  it,  the  latter  from  purely  disinterested  motives, 
the  former  because  she  wanted  Dickie's  company.  He 
met  them  both  with  the  quiet  assurance  that  he  wanted 
to  work  and  meant  to  work.  Adela  accused  him  of  being 
selfish.  , 


ii 

The  discovery  of  his  own  limitations  was  a  slow  process. 

He  had  boldly  attacked  the  calculus,  and  found  many 
reasons  in  succession  for  his  failure  to  master  the  finer 
subtleties  of  mathematical  reasoning.  He  had  gone  on 
too  quickly,  was  his  first  deduction;  but  a  return  to  the 
calculus  after  a  month's  steady  grind  at  less  difficult  work, 
found  him  with  no  firmer  grasp  of  the  theorems  than  he 
had  had  before.  After  that  he  leaned  to  the  suggestion 
that  he  had  "gone  stale,"  and  by  way  of  rest  took  up  the 
subject  of  "Banking,"  borrowing  various  works  from  the 
collection  of  Mr.  Bell.  Then  he  decided  that  he  ought  to 
have  help,  realised  that  no  help  was  available,  and  suffered 
a  period  of  discontent  and  unrest,  during  which  he  went 
back  over  old  ground  again  and  cursed  himself  as  a 
"slacker" — the  most  opprobrious  term  he  knew. 

That  period  was  ended  for  him  by  an  apparently  irrele- 
vant incident. 

Parliament  was  to  meet  in  a  few  weeks'  time,  and  the 
arch-criminal  was  proposing  to  bring  in  his  villainous  bill 
for  the  disruption  of  the  Empire.  The  country  about  Med- 
borough  was  immensely  anxious  and  disturbed.  Meetings 
were  being  held  in  every  possible  place,  and  a  lecturer  was 
engaged  by  Mr.  Lynneker  to  expound  the  atrocities  of  Mr. 
Gladstone  in  the  Infant  School-room  at  Halton. 

Dickie  accepted  all  his  father's  pronouncements  on  that 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  REASON  93 

subject  of  Radical  iniquity  without  question;  and  he  was 
a  little  ashamed  of  the  fact  that  he  did  not  resent  the 
wickedness  of  Mr.  Gladstone  as  bitterly  as  he  undoubtedly 
ought  to  resent  it.  Even  Bradshaw  had  been  warmed  to 
a  glow  of  indignation,  and  had  deplored  the  congenital 
handicap  which  prevented  his  being  taken  seriously  on 
public  occasions. 

"I'd  like  to  have  a  chance  to  let  myself  go  about  the 
Home  Rule  Bill,"  Bradshaw  had  said  one  afternoon ;  and 
Mr.  Bell  and  Cartwright  had  murmured  their  sympathy 
with  his  aspirations. 

Dickie  attributed  his  own  tepidity  to  ignorance,  and  de- 
cided to  take  advantage  of  the  opportunity  afforded  by 
the  meeting  in  the  Halton  school-room.  Mr.  Lynneker 
warmly  approved  his  son's  interest  in  so  urgent  a  matter. 

The  lecturer,  familiarly  spoken  of  in  the  town  as  "young 
Charlie  Evans,"  was  a  red-faced,  sandy-haired,  amazingly- 
freckled  young  man  of  thirty  or  so,  with  a  powerful  voice 
and  a  vehement  manner.  He  was  a  partner  in  the  principal 
firm  of  auctioneers  and  estate  agents  in  Medborough,  and 
was  accounted  a  valuable  asset  by  the  Conservative  Associa- 
tion. He  had  been  second  speaker  at  important  gatherings 
through  the  winter,  and  had  been  complimented  on  more 
than  one  occasion  by  the  member,  Lord  William  March. 

The  Halton  meeting  was  held  at  six  o'clock  for  the  con- 
venience of  labourers  who  went  to  bed  at  seven  in  the 
winter  months.  The  school-room  could  hold  a  hundred  and 
fifty  people  and  when  Ford,  the  village  policeman,  had, 
at  Mr.  Lynneker's  request,  herded  in  the  rabble,  who  would 
have  preferred  to  remain  just  outside  the  door,  the  place 
was  nearly  full.  Many  of  the  labourers  had  brought  their 
wives — free  entertainments  were  rare  in  Halton,  for  even 
missionary  meetings  closed  with  the  pressing  invitation  of 
"a  collection"  which  it  was  hardly  decent  to  ignore — and 
the  wives  had  brought  the  children  who  were  too  young 
to  be  left  at  home. 

Mr.  Lynneker  opened  the  proceedings  with  a  few  bitter 
remarks  about  Mr.  Gladstone,  that  failed  to  rouse  the  en- 


94  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

thusiasm  of  the  general  audience,  and  then  Mr.  Evans 
jumped  to  his  feet  as  if  he  had  not  a  moment  to  spare  and 
plunged  into  his  exposition  of  what  the  Home  Rule  Bill 
would  do  for  the  Empire.  He  had  brought  with  him  an 
immense  map  which  had  been  hung  on  the  wall  at  the  back 
of  the  platform,  and  he  began  with  a  tactical  treatise.  The 
map  displayed  the  whole  of  the  British  Isles,  and,  at  the 
bottom,  the  nose  of  France,  poking  out  nearly  as  far  West 
as  the  Lizard.  That  nose  was,  indeed,  the  chief  feature  of 
the  earlier  argument. 

"Cut  off  Ireland  from  English  rule,"  was  the  gist  of 
Mr.  Evans's  heated  demonstration  of  possibilities  under 
this  head,  "and  you  laid  England  open  to  invasion  by  the 
French."  He  emphasised  the  certainty  of  that  disaster 
with  a  walking  stick  as  a  pointer,  sliding  about  the  near 
Atlantic,  and  exhibiting  the  straightness  of  the  line  from 
Brest  to  Cork.  He  admitted  that  it  might  be  possible  to 
guard  the  Channel  and  the  East  Coast,  but  it  seemed  that 
no  power  on  earth  could  stop  the  French  from  crossing 
the  Irish  Sea,  once  they  had  landed  at  Queenstown. 

In  the  loyalty  of  the  Irish  people,  Mr.  Evans  had  no 
faith  whatever.  He  hinted  that  the  demand  for  a  separate 
Parliament  was  but  the  opening  stage  of  a  policy  that 
aimed  at  the  final  subjugation — with  French  help — of  the 
whole  English  people ;  and  he  became  so  hot  and  angry  and 
loud  that  many  of  the  audience  began  to  have  awful 
doubts  of  the  safety  of  their  walk  home.  If  this  inva- 
sion were  so  easy,  the  thing  might  have  been  already  accom- 
plished; why,  after  all,  should  the  French  wait  for  such 
a  trifle  as  the  passing  of  this  particular  bill? 

The  second  part  of  Mr.  Evans's  speech,  however,  raised 
them  from  their  depression.  He  dropped  his  walking  stick, 
resolutely  turned  his  back  on  the  map,  and  came  to  the 
front  of  the  platform.  He  expatiated  on  the  glories  of 
the  British  Empire;  he  gave  every  member  of  the  audi- 
ence his  due  for  the  share  he  or  she  had  taken  in  build- 
ing up  these  glories;  he  became  fearfully  impassioned, 
waved  his  hairy,  freckled  hands  in  thick  and  stubborn 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  REASON  95 

gestures  of  denunciation  or  appeal  and  came  at  last  to  a 
peroration  on  the  duty  of  every  man  to  save  his  country 
from  political,  financial  and  moral  ruin. 

When  he  sat  down  with  a  vigour  that  saved  the  least  sug- 
gestion of  anti-climax,  the  applause,  earnestly  led  by  Mr. 
Lynneker,  was  all  that  a  speaker  could  desire.  Mr.  Evans 
had  to  suspend  the  long-neglected  duty  of  wiping  the  per- 
spiration from  his  face,  in  order  to  bow  his  acknowledge- 
ments. 

There  had  been  no  interruptions  while  he  was  speaking; 
it  would,  indeed,  have  taken  a  confident  man  to  attempt 
any  opposition  to  that  tremendous,  unslackening  power  of 
lung;  but  as  the  Rectory  party  passed  out  through  the 
porch  into  the  school  field,  a  group  of  youths,  dimly  seen 
in  the  darkness,  laughed  rudely,  and  a  jeering  voice  called 
out,  'Three  cheers  for  Billy  Gladstone." 

"That  was  young  Bellamy,"  Mr.  Lynneker  said  severely 
when  they  were  out  of  hearing  of  the  mob,  and  explained 
to  Mr.  Evans  that  young  Bellamy  was  the  black  sheep  of 
the  parish. 

Mr.  Evans  had  been  invited  to  supper  at  the  Rectory. 


in 

He  was  seen  to  less  advantage  on  the  drawing-room 
hearth-rug  or  across  the  supper-table.  His  collar  had  suf- 
fered by  the  neglect  of  his  handkerchief  while  speaking,  and 
was  badly  buckled  on  the  right  side,  a  defect  that  he  tried 
to  remedy  by  continually  pulling  at  its  upper  edge.  Also, 
he  was  very  conscious  of  no  longer  being  nervous  in  clerical 
society.  On  the  platform  his  speech  had  been  astonishingly 
fluent,  and  he  relied  on  the  same  gift  of  words  to  tide  him 
over  the  awkwardness  of  the  social  entertainment.  His 
talk  was  all  of  politics,  and  he  was  never  at  a  loss  for  an 
opinion.  He  appeared  to  have  finally  made  up  his  mind 
on  every  point  connected  with  the  policy  of  the  govern- 
ment, its  effect  upon  every  class  of  voter  and  the  steps 


96  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

that  must  be  taken  to  combat  it.  Finally,  he  never  addressed 
one  of  the  company  without  mentioning  them  by  name. 

"A  very  attentive  meeting,"  the  Rector  suggested  when 
he  had  an  opportunity  to  turn  the  conversation  from  the 
general  to  the  particular. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Lynneker,"  Evans  agreed.  "I  have  found  all 
my  meetings  recently  well  attended  and  well  received.  The 
country,  as  a  whole,  is  very  strong  against  the  present  pro- 
gramme. If  we  had  a  general  election  at  the  present  mo- 
ment, Mr.  Lynneker,  we  should  come  home  with  a  very 
large  majority." 

"I  should  like  to  see  that  infamous  scoundrel  horse- 
whipped out  of  the  country,"  the  Rector  commented,  and 
there  was  no  need  to  point  the  application  of  his  remark. 

"We  shall  get  rid  of  him  without  that,  Mr.  Lynneker," 
Evans  said,  and  proceeded  to  outline  the  means. 

Dickie  listened  and  found  himself  singularly  unimpressed. 
He  was  too  near  the  life  of  a  public-school  to  have  been 
roused  to  any  enthusiasm  by  the  wordy  patriotism  of  the 
speech  in  the  school-room,  and  certain  doubts  that  had 
been  fermenting  in  his  mind  took  the  form  of  a  question 
in  the  drawing-room  after  supper. 

"I  say,"  he  said  when  he  found  a  chance,  "d'you  really 
believe  there's  any  chance  of  a  French  invasion  ?" 

"It's  highly  improbable,  Mr.  Lynneker,"  Evans  replied, 
"but  it  is  a  possibility  that  must  be  considered." 

"But  you  made  it  your  chief  point,  to-night,"  Dickie 
persisted,  and  his  father  looked  up  at  him  with  a  nod  of 
approval.  He  liked  to  see  his  boys  holding  their  own  in- 
telligently. 

"For  a  rustic  audience,  Mr.  Lynneker,"  Evans  explained. 
"We  have  to  get  hold  of  'em  and  shake  'em.  They  ought 
never  to  have  been  given  the  vote,  but  as  they've  got  it, 
we  must  teach  'em  how  to  use  it,  and  we  have  to  talk  to 
'em  in  words  they  can  understand." 

"Then  you  don't  believe,  yourself,  that  this  invasion 
business  is  a  particularly  good  argument  against  Home 
Rule!  at  least  not  for  educated  people." 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  REASON  97 

"Well,  no,  Mr.  Lynneker,  there  are  better  arguments ; 
for  instance  .  .  ." 

"Oh!  I'm  sure  there  are,"  Dickie  interrupted.  "I  only 
wanted  to  make  certain  that  that  one  was  bunkum.  It  struck 
me  it  must  be  when  I  heard  it." 

"Come,  come,  Dick,"  put  in  Mr.  Lynneker,  on  a  note  of 
admonishment.  "One  must  adapt  oneself  to  the  neces- 
sities of  one's  audience,  eh,  Evans?" 

"One  certainly  must,  Mr.  Lynneker,"  Evans  said.  "I 
remember  at  a  big  meeting  in  the  Drill  Hall  last 
autumn  ..." 

But  Dickie  was  not  yet  satisfied,  and  when  the  anecdote 
had  been  told,  returned  to  his  attack  by  saying : 

"It  doesn't  seem  to  you  that  there's  anything  dishonest 
in  rubbing  all  those  yarns  into  these  labourers?" 

"Oh !  my  dear  boy,"  his  father  said.  "You  don't  in  the 
least  understand  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Evans  interrupted  the  reproof  by  submitting  that 
it  was  necessary  to  meet  an  opponent  with  his  own  weapons, 
and  then  talked  himself  on  to  his  feet,  into  his  coat  and 
out  to  the  dog-cart  that  was  waiting  at  the  front  door  for 
him,  bidding  his  host  good-night  amid  a  final  volley  of 
"Mr.  Lynnekers." 

"Capital  fellow,"  was  the  Rector's  comment.  "So  ear- 
nest." 

"And  so  devoted  to  the  name  of  Lynneker,"  put  in  his 
wife.  "I  never  heard  it  mentioned  so  often  before." 

The  Rector  smiled.  "A  self-made  man,  of  course,"  he 
agreed. 

The  family  as  a  whole  found  considerable  amusement 
later  in  various  imitations  of  the  ebullient  Evans,  par- 
ticularly Adela,  who  was  certainly  a  clever  mimic. 


IV 

But    Dickie's    criticism    went    deeper    than    ridicule    of 
Evans's  mannerisms,  although  he  lacked  both  practical  ex- 


98  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

perience  and  theoretical  knowledge,  and  was  necessarily  too 
detached  and  too  superficial  in  his  examination.  He  iso- 
lated this  single  problem  that  had  been  presented  to  him, 
and  tried  to  solve  it  by  the  primitive  logical  formula  that 
his  mathematical  bias  had  suggested.  A  digest  of  his  en- 
quiry which  incidentally  touched  and  immediately  recoiled 
from  an  application  to  his  father's  political  opinions,  falls 
into  the  simplest  statements,  but  he  doubted  the  truth  of  his 
conclusions. 

His  premises  were  two.  The  first,  that  the  policy  of  Mr. 
Gladstone  must  be  attacked  by  dishonest  methods;  the 
second,  that,  according  to  Mr.  Evans's  admission,  this  dis- 
honesty was  induced  by  the  necessity  to  fight  one's  op- 
ponents with  their  own  weapons.  He  could  not  make  a 
right  of  these  two  wrongs. 

If  a  clerk  cheated  the  Bank,  the  Bank  did  not  retaliate 
by  trying  to  cheat  the  clerk.  The  alternative  in  that  case 
was  a  resort  to  a  general  principle  of  integrity  administered 
by  the  law.  In  the  world  of  politics  there  was,  apparently, 
no  standard  of  rectitude  to  which  resort  could  be  made. 
If  the  radical  John  Smith  brought  in  a  bill  to  raise  labourers' 
wages,  his  political  opponents  might  use  any  specious  false- 
hood they  could  invent  in  order  to  persuade  the  labourer 
that  he  would  be  a  loser  and  not  a  gainer  under  the  proposed 
act. 

That  statement  which  so  far  as  he  could  judge  was  incon- 
trovertible, led  him  to  a  consideration  of  why  any  bill 
should,  ex  hypothesi,  be  attacked  by  the  side  that  was  not 
responsible  for  its  submission  to  the  House.  Did  one 
choose  a  party  as  one  might  pick  up  sides  in  a  cricket- 
match,  and  just  try  for  all  one  was  worth  to  put  the  other 
side  out? 

He  rejected  that  conclusion  as  altogether  too  farcical.  He 
believed  that  Parliament  under  the  King's  direction  gov- 
erned the  country.  Then  he  remembered  the  clause  in 
the  church  catechism  and  was  met  by  another  flat  contradic- 
tion. Neither  his  father,  nor  Mr.  Evans,  for  example, 
honoured  or  respected  the  present  Prime  Minister,  who 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  REASON  99 

certainly  came  within  the  definition  of  one  "put  in  authority 
under"  Queen  Victoria. 

For  a  few  days  he  pondered  the  problem  of  political 
dishonesty  at  odd  moments,  usually  as  he  was  riding  be- 
tween Halton  and  Medborough,  and  was  inclined  to  dismiss 
the  whole  bother  as  beyond  his  understanding.  The  hand 
of  the  prehistoric  governess  was  visible  again  here.  Cer- 
tain incomprehensible  laws  had  been  laid  down  by  her  in 
the  forgotten  past,  and  it  was,  as  he  had  been  told  many 
times,  arrogant  and  presumptuous  to  doubt  her  proved 
wisdom. 

He  might  have  left  his  problem  there  for  a  time,  if  it 
had  not  been  for  Bradshaw. 


Bradshaw  had  the  conservative  habit,  and  Dickie  posed 
him  with  the  question  of  why  he  had  "picked  up"  on  that 
side. 

It  was  a  wet  February  afternoon  and  they  were  taking 
their  mid-day  constitutional  by  pacing  up  and  down  under 
the  deserted  arches  of  the  market  hall. 

"Built  that  way,"  Bradshaw  explained  promptly.  "Al- 
ways been  keen  on  history,  as  you  know." 

"But  why  does  that  make  you  so  hot  against  Home 
Rule?"  asked  Dickie. 

"It's  against  the  traditions,"  Bradshaw  said.  "I  hate 
anything  that  wants  to  break  up  the  traditions.  I'd  like 
to  go  back  to  feudalism,  with  the  landowner  as  a  little 
father  to  his  work-people;  and  have  guilds  in  the  town— 
everything  that  makes  for  brotherhood — Thelema  and  that 
sort  of  thing,  you  know.  Pity  you  aren't  more  interested 
in  history,  Lynneker." 

"Yes,"  Dickie  agreed.    "I  must  have  another  shot  at  it." 

"You  should,"  Bradshaw  said.  "Fine  stuff."  He  had 
formed  a  considerable  liking  and  admiration  for  young 
Lynneker  in  the  course  of  the  past  four  months. 


100  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

Dickie  was  already  regarded  by  the  staff  of  the  City 
&  County  as  a  youngster  who  would  make  his  mark.  Mr. 
Bell  had  been  astonished  by  his  junior  clerk's  ability  to 
master  the  general  principles  of  book-keeping  and  bank- 
ing, and  had  advised  him  to  read  for  the  examinations  of 
the  Institute  of  Chartered  Accountants  as  a  sure  step  to 
ultimate  promotion.  "Splendid  head  for  figures,"  had  been 
Mr.  Bell's  eulogy,  made  to  Cartwright  in  Bradshaw's  hear- 
ing. Cartwright  was  inclined  to  be  a  little  jealous;  but 
Bradshaw  frankly  admitted  that  he  had  no  talent  for 
his  work,  and  that  he  intended  ultimately  to  strike  out  on 
some  original  line  of  his  own.  So  no  rivalry  interfered 
between  him  and  Dickie,  and  in  some  queer  way  each  sup- 
plied the  other's  deficiencies. 

"Why  I  didn't  take  to  history  at  school,"  Dickie  said, 
"was  because  it  didn't  seem  to  do  anything,  didn't  work, 
you  know." 

Bradshaw  stopped  in  his  walk  and  his  bright  little  brown 
eyes  opened  in  a  quaint  expression  of  astonishment.  A 
stranger  might  have  laughed  as  he  would  have  laughed 
at  seeing  his  own  face  in  a  distorting  mirror,  but  Dickie 
had  come  to  understand  the  man  behind  the  mask;  he  was 
no  more  tempted  to  grin  than  is  a  pantomime  super  talk- 
ing to  his  disguised  friend. 

"Doesn't  do  anything?"  Bradshaw  exclaimed.  "Good 
Lord,  Lynneker!"  He  shrugged  his  square,  narrow  shoul- 
ders and  attempted  explanation  with  stiff,  gesticulating 
hands.  "D'you  mean  politics,  the  government  of  the  coun- 
try doesn't  do  anything?"  he  asked.  "D'you  mean  things 
would  run  themselves  if  there  was  no  authority  for  law 
and  order?" 

"Oh!  no,  of  course  not,"  returned  Dickie,  "but  where 
does  history  come  in?" 

"Well,  you  don't  suppose  civilisation  and  all  the  rest 
of  it  was  made  one  night  when  folks  were  in  bed,  do 
yon?"  asked  Bradshaw.  "It's  all  a  growth,  man,  and 
history  is  the  record  of  it.  I  don't  say  that  it  hasn't,  in 
my  opinion,  been  growing  a  bad  shape  for  the  last  hun- 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  REASON  101 

dred  years  or  so,"  he  added  thoughtfully.  '\Yh;it  I  say 
is  that  the  French  Revolution  upset  things  so  as  they've 
never  properly  got  over  it;  got  a  bit  on  the  skew-whiff,  you 
know.  But  we'll  have  a  reaction  by  and  by.  Machinery's 
a  curse — read  Butler's  'Erewhon'  ?  Oh !  you  should ; 
Butler's  fine — and  all  this  atheism  that  Darwin  started, 
that's  another  rotten  thing ;  Butler  doesn't  believe  in  Natural 
Selection ;  you  must  read  Butler.  .  .  ." 

"Here,  wait  a  shake/'  Dickie  interposed,  "we  haven't 
time  for  a  public  lecture,  old  chap.  I  want  to  ask  ques- 
tions. To  begin  with,  what's  Darwin  got  to  do  with  it?  I 
thought  he  was  a  naturalist  with  some  theory  about  mon- 
keys— awful  rot,  from  all  I've  heard  of  it." 

Bradshaw's  explanation  was  not  of  a  kind  to  lighten 
appreciably  the  dark  places  of  Dickie's  mind.  His  reading 
had  been  characteristically  capricious  and  perfunctory.  He 
had  dabbled  happily  in  the  shallows  of  history,  giving  his 
imagination  play  with  all  the  movement  and  colour  of 
the  pageant.  The  traffic  of  kings,  the  wars  that  were  be- 
gotten of  it,  the  passing  ambitions  of  various  nobles  or 
of  the  people  to  take  a  more  authoritative  hand  in  govern- 
ment, all  were  sympathetically  reviewed  by  him  in  pre- 
cisely the  same  spirit.  Each  stage  of  history  was  to  him 
a  detached  incident,  real  as  the  various  chapters  of  a 
romantic  novel.  He  clothed  the  bare  story  with  a  wealth 
of  circumstantial  detail,  for  the  most  part  quite  inaccurate, 
and  lived  in  the  scene  as  he  lived  in  the  emotions  of  the 
theatre. 

But  if  his  scholarship  was  negligible  and  his  plan  of  read- 
ing unscientific,  he  did,  at  least,  presently  inspire  Dickie 
to  take  a  more  vital  interest  in  the  study  of  history.  Dar- 
win still  remained  in  the  obscure  background  of  his  mind, 
labelled  as  "some  naturalist  fellow  who  had  a  rotten  theory 
about  monkeys,"  and  he  failed  to  comprehend  the  satire 
of  "Erewhon,"  lent  him  by  Bradshaw;  but  Dickie  began 
this  February  to  widen  his  reading,  to  make  the  important 
discovery  that  there  were  other  subjects  besides  mathe- 
matics that  "did"  things. 


102  THESE  LYNNEKERS 


VI 

His  first  attack  met  with  little  encouragement.  Mr. 
Lynneker's  library  was  not  well-stocked  with  historical 
literature.  The  chief  piece  was  a  six-volume  history  of 
England  "founded  on  Hume  and  Smollett,"  a  work  that 
had  been  published  in  monthly  parts  some  time  before  the 
middle  of  the  century,  and  one  that  if  it  were  open  to  expert 
censure,  had  the  advantage  of  being  richly  illustrated. 
Beyond  this  there  was  a  vile  edition  of  Gibbon,  condensed 
into  one  clumsy  octavo ;  an  odd  volume  of  Macaulay's  His- 
tory— the  others  had  been  lent  and  never  returned — and 
an  edition  of  Hallam's  "Middle  Ages." 

Dickie  wrestled  bravely  with  this  stodgy  diet  and  if 
he  found  it  little  more  interesting  than  the  rules  of  Latin 
syntax,  admitted  that  the  study  was  opening  his  eyes  to 
the  fact  that  the  British  constitution  had  not,  as  Bradshaw 
suggested,  miraculously  sprung  into  being  while  people 
slept. 

But  at  the  back  of  his  mind,  some  uncertain  subconscious 
suggestion  struggled  vainly  now  and  again  to  find  ex- 
pression. Sometimes  he  would  pause  in  his  reading  and 
ruffle  his  hair,  in  the  vain  attempt  to  understand  what  lay 
behind  all  this  mass  of  particulars  concerning  the  acts  of 
Kings  and  Queens  and  Parliaments. 

"There's  something  behind  it  all  I  can't  get  at,"  he  said 
to  Bradshaw.  "I  feel  as  if  it  doesn't  quite  work,  yet,  if  you 
know  what  I  mean." 

Bradshaw  had  no  idea  what  he  meant,  and  Dickie,  him- 
self, was  not  at  all  clear.  He  found  Bradshaw's  attempted 
exposition  of  the  causes  of  the  war  between  Charles  I  and 
his  Parliament  even  less  convincing  than  those  advanced  in 
the  work  "founded  on  Hume  and  Smollett." 

And  then  Dickie  in  a  spirit  of  rash  adventure  went  to 
a  Radical  Meeting  at  the  Drill  Hall  in  Medborough. 

It  was  possibly  the  first  time  that  a  Lynneker  had  ever 
so  demeaned  himself,  and  the  Rector  frowned  upon  the 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  REASON  103 

idea  when  it  was  mooted.  "A  waste  of  time,"  was  his 
opinion.  Nevertheless  Dickie  went,  if  not  in  defiance  of 
parental  authority,  certainly  without  parental  approval. 

He  was  not  impressed  by  the  arguments  of  the  principal 
speaker,  who  abused  Salisbury  and  Balfour  in  much  the 
same  spirit  as  that  in  which  Evans  and  the  Rector  had 
abused  Gladstone.  The  arguments  in  favour  of  the  Home 
Rule  Bill — it  had  passed  the  Commons  at  that  time — 
seemed  to  Dickie  rather  more  sensible  than  those  which 
he  had  heard  against  it;  but  he  was  outraged  by  the  sug- 
gestion that  the  House,  then  debating  and  certainly  intend- 
ing to  reject  the  controversial  measure  under  discussion, 
ought  to  be  destroyed  root  and  branch. 

Dickie  had  been  educated  into  a  profound  respect  for  the 
House  of  Lords.  His  father  had  thanked  God  for  its 
existence  on  more  than  one  recent  occasion;  and  this 
radical  "spouter"  who  obviously  was  not  a  gentleman,  was 
necessarily  judged  by  Lynneker  standards  as  "a  rank 
outsider." 

The  Rector  was  still  sitting  up,  in  his  dressing-gown, 
when  Dickie  came  in  at  half-past  eleven. 

"Well,  are  you  satisfied?"  was  his  half-ironical  greeting. 

"The  chief  speaker  was  a  ghastly  bounder,"  Dickie  said. 

"And  you're  not  converted,  eh?" 

"Simply  don't  understand  it  all,"  Dickie  admitted.  "It 
seems  to  me  that  the  important  thing  is  to  abuse  the  other 
side." 

Mr.  Lynneker  made  no  answer  to  that.  He  was  occu- 
pied in  locking,  bolting  and  chaining  the  front  door,  and 
the  purport  of  his  son's  reply  may  have  been  lost  upon 
him. 

But  one  effect  remained  and  grew  as  an  outcome  of 
that  attendance  at  the  Drill  Hall.  One  of  the  less  im- 
portant speakers  had  made  a  reference  to  Thorold  Rogers's 
"Six  Centuries  of  Life  and  Labour,"  and  the  title  appealed 
to  Dickie.  He  succeeded  in  borrowing  a  copy  of  the  work 
from  the  Medborough  Public  Library  and  before  he  had 
read  three  chapters,  he  found  that  key  to  his  historical  read- 


104  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

ing  which  he  had  not  been  quite  clever  enough  to  discover 
for  himself. 

A  month  or  two  later  he  commended  the  book  to  Brad- 
shaw  who  dipped  fastidiously  and  pronounced  it  "muck." 


VII 

This  introduction  of  the  study  of  economics  diverted 
Dickie  from  pure  mathematics  and  marked  the  first  stage 
of  his  general  education.  When  he  presently  returned  to 
a  consideration  of  the  calculus,  he  found  that  his  desire  to 
rival  the  achievement  of  J.  C.  Adams  had  given  place  to 
a  greater  ambition,  to  the  intense  wish  to  understand  some- 
thing of  the  inclusive  problem.  A  sight  of  the  immense 
world  had  been  opened  to  him,  and  after  a  moment's  amazed 
hesitation  he  set  himself  doggedly  to  prepare  for  its  ex- 
ploration. 

He  took  no  one  but  Bradshaw  into  his  confidence.  He 
had  not  lost  faith  in  his  father's  opinion,  but  he  anticipated 
the  advice  to  return  first  of  all  to  a  study  of  classic  litera- 
ture, and  refused  any  longer  to  be  dictated  to  in  that  matter. 
He  was  still  under  the  influence  of  his  reaction,  and  did 
not  come  to  a  recognition  of  the  real,  if  subsidiary,  place 
of  Greek  and  Latin  in  education  for  more  than  two  years. 

Bradshaw  was  chiefly  astounded  by  Dickie's  statement 
that  he  meant  to  learn  French  and  German. 

"All  right  for  a  foreign  correspondent's  job,"  was  Brad- 
shaw's  utilitarian  criticism,  and  he  shook  his  head  over  the 
explanation  that  French  and  German,  and  more  particu- 
larly the  latter,  were  only  pathways  to  historical  and  eco- 
nomic material. 

"It's  beyond  me,  Lynneker,  old  boy,"  he  said.  "I'm  a 
born  what-you-call-it — not  electric;  something  like  that — 
just  a  dabbler.  You'll  be  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  one 
day,  safe  as  eggs.  I  haven't  got  enough  gum  in  my  consti- 
tution; can't  stick  to  anything,  except  my  own  bits  of  his- 
tory, for  more  than  a  fortnight.  Do  everything  a  bit  in 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  REASON  105 

about  ten  minutes  and  can't  get  any  further.  My  new  bit's 
learning  the  piano.  I  could  always  vamp  a  bit  and  play 
tunes  by  ear,  but  I'm  having  regular  lessons,  now."  He 
paused  a  moment  and  then  went  on,  "Miss  Young's  teach- 
ing me.  I  expect  you  know  her  by  sight.  She  and  her 
mother  live  in  the  Dogsthorpe  Road ;  ladies,  of  course,  rather 
hard  up." 

But  Dickie  did  not  know  Miss  Young  by  sight,  and  being 
rather  intent  on  his  own  plan  of  work,  failed  to  offer 
Bradshaw  the  encouragement  he  was  plainly  seeking. 

"Only  struck  me,"  Bradshaw  said,  "that  if  you  were  going 
to  learn  French, — she  teaches  that,  too,  I  know.  .  .  ." 

"My  mother  speaks  French  very  well,"  Dickie  said.  "I 
can  get  accent  from  her,  if  necessary — but  I  shan't  bother 
about  that,  yet.  I  want  to  be  able  to  read  French  and 
German,  not  to  speak  them." 

"You're  a  wonder,"  Bradshaw  admitted  with  a  sigh. 

Dickie  mumbled  some  advice  about  "not  being  a  silly 

ace  " 

ass. 


VII 
EDWARD 


DICKIE  had  been  at  the  Bank  nearly  twelve  months, 
when  Edward  fell  in  love  with  Gertrude  Leake. 

He  had  been  in  love  before;  once  he  had  been  almost 
engaged  to  a  widow,  ten  years  his  senior,  and  might  have 
drifted  into  marriage  with  her  if  she  had  not  let  her  house 
in  Medborough  that  spring  and  gone  to  Italy.  By  the  time 
she  returned  he  had  discovered  that  much  as  he  admired 
her,  she  was  not  to  be  the  great  inspiration  of  his  life,  and 
Mrs.  Blackwell  had  made  no  effort  to  recall  him.  She  had 
liked  him  well  enough,  but  had  feared  the  criticism  of  the 
Precincts. 

But  this  time,  as  Edward  insisted,  it  was  "absolutely 
final." 

He  came  into  the  City  &  County  just  before  four  o'clock 
one  Wednesday  afternoon  in  August  and  asked  for  Dickie 
who  explained  that  he  could  not  possibly  get  away  for  at 
least  half  an  hour,  as  Cartwright  was  away  on  his  holidays 
and  there  was  much  necessary  work  to  be  done  after  the 
Bank  was  closed  to  the  Public. 

"All  right,"  Edward  said  mildly.  "I'll  go  to  Hopkinson's ; 
will  you  come  on  there?  I  thought  we  might  walk  home 
together." 

"All  serene,"  agreed  Dickie,  and  wondered  why  his  elder 
brother  was  so  eager  for  his  company. 

The  reason  did  not  appear  while  they  were  having  tea 
at  the  Broad  Street  confectioner's,  which  only  offered  the 

106 


EDWARD  107 

hospitality  of  three  little  round-topped  marble  tables  in  the 
front  shop  and  was  no  place  for  the  display  of  emotions. 

Edward  was  unusually  polite  and  considerate,  and  al- 
though he  had  moments  of  intense  abstraction,  was  very 
ready  to  talk  of  the  Medborough  tennis  tourney  in  which  he 
had  been  playing  for  the  last  two  days. 

"When  do  they  finish  it?"  asked  Dickie  after  he  had 
listened  to  a  realistic  account  of  how  Edward  and  his  part- 
ner were  knocked  out  in  the  semi-final. 

"Oh !  they'll  finish  it  this  evening,"  Edward  said. 

"You  don't  care  who  wins  particularly,  I  suppose?" 

"I'm  rather  keen  on  young  Hudson  and  his  sister,"  Ed- 
ward said.  "It's  between  them  and  the  Wetheralls,  the 
draper  people  in  Priestgate,  you  know.  I  rather  bar  that 
chap ;  he  puts  on  such  awful  side." 

"Why  didn't  you  stay  and  see  it  out?"  asked  Dickie  by 
way  of  keeping  the  conversation  going. 

Edward  appeared  pleasantly  confused,  and  glanced  across 
at  his  brother  with  a  look  that  said :  "Haven't  you  the  least 
idea  how  things  are?"  Then  he  carefully  picked  up  a 
crumb  of  cake  and  dropped  it  into  his  tea-cup.  "Didn't 
seem  worth  while,"  he  remarked  in  a  tone  that  implied  he 
was  deliberately  keeping  some  important  secret  in  reserve 
and  wished  the  enquiry  to  be  pressed  later. 

He  carefully  led  up  to  the  same  point  when  they  were 
out  of  the  town,  but  Dickie  was  obtuse  and  they  had  passed 
Thrapley  and  were  in  the  stretch  of  road  that  cuts  through 
the  Grinling  woods  before  Edward  could  make  his  con- 
fession. He  might  have  delayed  it  even  longer  if  the  ro- 
mance of  his  surroundings  had  not  worked  upon  him  and 
made  silence  impossible — any  irrelevant  conversation  was 
silence  to  Edward  that  afternoon. 

"Let's  have  a  rest,"  he  suggested.  "I'm  a  bit  fagged; 
playing  tennis  all  day.  Have  a  cigarette?" 

Dickie  was  not  a  smoker,  but  he  accepted  the  cigarette. 
He  had  a  vague  idea  of  what  Edward  was  going  to  con- 
fide in  him  and  was  at  once  bored  and  embarrassed  by  the 
prospect. 


108  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

Edward  was  leaning  over  the  gate  of  the  private  grass- 
road  through  the  wood,  staring  up  the  dark  tunnel  of  the 
avenue  to  the  distant  brilliance  of  a  sunlit  clearing.  In 
his  flannels  he  bore  no  mark  of  the  parson;  and  his  neat 
dark  moustache  failed  to  disguise  him.  Dickie  could  only 
see  him  as  an  elder  brother,  but  he  was  just  a  rather  sen- 
timental, flattered  schoolboy. 


ii 

"I  suppose  you  can't  guess,"  he  said,  after  a  long  pause. 

"You  haven't  made  it  up  with  Mrs.  Blackwell  ?"  hazarded 
Dickie. 

"Good  Lord,  no!"  The  contempt  of  the  denial  was 
mingled  with  irritation  at  Dickie's  stupidity.  "There  never 
was  anything  in  that,"  he  explained,  frowning.  "It  was 
never  in  the  least  serious." 

"Sorry;  I  didn't  know,"  apologised  Dickie. 

"Haven't  you  any  idea?" 

Dickie  had  no  ideas  on  that  subject.  He  wanted  to  get 
home.  He  had  wasted  nearly  two  hours  already. 

"I  should  have  thought  it  was  pretty  obvious,"  Edward 
confessed  modestly.  "I  should  have  thought  everybody 
would  have  seen  how  things  were." 

"Are  you  engaged?"  asked  Dickie. 

"Practically.  She  was  my  partner  in  the  tournament, 
you  know,  and  I  had  lunch  at  the  Vicarage.  And,  after- 
wards, we  were  alone  in  the  drawing-room  for  about  two 
minutes.  It  was  then  .  .  ." 

"Did  you  propose  to  her?"  Dickie's  question  was  asked 
in  desperation.  He  knew,  now,  the  name  of  this  incarna- 
tion of  his  brother's  ideal.  She  was  the  eldest  daughter 
of  the  Vicar  of  Medborough.  Dickie  had  seen  her  once  or 
twice,  and  remembered  her  as  a  buxom,  high-complexioned, 
fair  young  woman,  who  got  very  hot  and  dishevelled  when 
she  played  tennis.  It  was  certainly  not  a  type  he  admired, 
and  in  the  front  of  his  thoughts  was  an  epithet  he  had 


EDWARD  109 

heard  from  Bradshaw.  Bradshaw  was  undoubtedly  coarse 
at  times,  and  his  reference  to  his  Vicar's  daughter  as 
"blowsy  Gertie,"  was  in  odious  taste,  but  the  epithet  had, 
at  the  moment,  seemed  horribly  apt. 

Edward  shook  his  head  impatiently  as  if  anything  so 
gross  and  commonplace  as  a  proposal  was  hopelessly  out 
of  the  picture. 

"You  said  you  were  'practically'  engaged,"  Dickie  said. 

"I — I  held  her  hand  for  about  two  seconds,"  Edward 
confessed  intrepidly;  "and  afterwards,  on  the  courts,  she 
said  something  about  my  going  to  St.  Peter's  as  her  father's 
curate  after  I've  taken  my  priest's  orders  in  the  autumn." 

"That  would  be  rather  decent,"  commented  Dickie. 

"I  should  see  her  every  day,"  mused  Edward. 

Dickie  had  not  considered  that  aspect  of  his  brother's 
possible  preferment,  and  tried  to  include  it  by  saying:  "It 
would  be  an  awful  score  for  you  in  every  way." 

"It  would,  wouldn't  it?"  Edward  said. 

"Rather,"  Dickie  assured  him.  "I  say,  oughtn't  we  to  be 
getting  on?" 

"Where's  the  hurry?  It's  only  just  six,"  Edward  pro- 
tested. "I  don't  feel  quite  in  the  mood  for  going  home, 
yet.  I  want  to  think  about  it  all.  It  has  been  so  sudden, 
in  a  way.  I've  been  very  keen,  of  course,  for  the  last  six 
weeks;  ever  since  we  played  two  sets  together  at  Allerton 
at  the  Buckley's  garden  party.  But  I  never  guessed  that 
she  cared  till  to-day." 

"Shall  you  tell  them  at  home?" 

"Great  Scott,  no.  Not  yet,  anyway.  I  might  tell  the 
mater,  perhaps.  No  one  else." 

"I  suppose  there's  no  chance  of  Mr.  Leake  objecting?" 

"I  haven't  thought  about  it." 

"When  do  you  expect  to  see  her  again  ?" 

"To-morrow,  I  hope.  She  goes  to  the  Cathedral  pretty 
often  in  the  afternoon,  and  she'll  be  there  to-morrow,  I 
know,  because  the  St.  Peter's  organist  is  going  to  take  the 
service,  and  she  told  me  she  wanted  to  hear  him  in  the 
Cathedral." 


110  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"Are  you  going  to  ask  her  to  marry  you,  then  ?" 

Edward  frowned.  "You're  dreadfully  gauche,  Dickie," 
he  said. 

"Why?    What  was  wrong  with  that?"  Dickie  asked. 

Edward  put  on  what  his  younger  brother  called  his 
"confounded  supercilious  look." 

"You're  so  disgustingly  business-like,"  he  said.  "Perhaps 
you  would  like  me  to  ask  her  for  a  contract,  and  make  it 
a  condition  that  I  should  have  the  curacy.  You  don't 
seem  to  have  a  grain  of  poetry  in  your  composition." 

"Dare  say  not,"  replied  Dickie  carelessly.  "Shall  we  be 
getting  on?"  He  thought  it  was  rather  rough  on  him  that 
after  wasting  three  blessed  hours,  more  or  less,  just  to 
listen  to  this  meander  about  that  fat  Leake  girl,  he  should 
be  hauled  over  the  coals  for  not  being  sentimental  about  it. 

Dickie  was  rapidly  coming  to  a  criticism  of  the  methods 
of  his  family.  "They  fiddled  about  so  much,"  was  the 
phrase  that  expressed  the  slight  irritation  of  his  mind. 


in 

His  criticism  was  accentuated  by  his  observation  of  Ed- 
ward's "absolutely  final"  love  affair. 

A  month  after  that  conversation  in  the  Grinling  wood, 
any  definite  engagement  seemed  as  far  away  as  ever.  Mrs. 
Lynneker  had  been  taken  into  her  son's  confidence,  and 
shared  with  Dickie  the  honour  of  being  the  recipient  of 
various  confessions  of  hope  and  despair. 

The  daring  of  Edward's  advance  in  the  Vicarage  draw- 
ing-room had  been  followed  by  a  reaction.  "She" — Edward 
used  no  other  description — had  been,  he  thought,  a  little 
cool  when  he  met  her  after  the  Cathedral  service.  He  had 
boldly  made  a  reference  to  the  possibility  of  his  becoming 
her  father's  curate,  and  had  been  rather  snubbed. 

"We're  not  certain,  yet,  whether  Mr.  Grace  is  leaving," 
she  had  said. 

Edward  was  sure  of  her  exact  words,  and  had  asked  his 


EDWARD  111 

mother's  opinion,  and  Dickie's,  on  the  precise  significance 
of  that  statement. 

"It  seemed  to  me,  I  don't  know,  that  her  tone  was  a 
little  cold,"  Edward  explained. 

Then  something  very  like  a  quarrel  followed. 

She  did  not  turn  up  at  the  Little  Milton  garden  party, 
and  Edward  could  only  suppose  that  it  was  because  she 
wanted  to  avoid  meeting  him. 

Dickie  had  a  trying  time  during  the  next  six  days.  Ed- 
ward took  him  out  for  "a  pipe"  on  the  back  lawn  after 
supper,  and  seriously  upset  his  work.  His  excuses  were 
met  by  a  pleading  expression,  and  the  assurance  that  he 
need  only  come  for  ten  minutes;  and  his  irritation  was 
not  acute  enough  to  prompt  a  flat  refusal. 

Edward  was  considering  the  idea  of  going  to  Central 
Africa  as  a  missionary  at  that  time.  He  had  even  aired 
the  suggestion  before  the  whole  family,  none  of  whom  ex- 
cept Adela  had  openly  poured  contempt  on  the  proposal. 

Mr.  Lynneker  had  always  been  an  ardent  worker  in  the 
cause  of  the  Church  Missionary  Society,  and  he  felt  that 
if  his  dear  son  had  had  "a  call,"  it  must  be  taken  with  a 
great  seriousness.  He  added  an  ambiguously  worded  clause 
to  family  prayers  on  the  evening  after  the  announcement 
was  made,  and  Edward  wore  a  very  earnest,  white-faced 
expression  all  the  next  day. 

Dickie,  with  the  best  intentions,  urged  his  brother  to 
put  his  fate  to  the  test  with  "her,"  and  was  met  with  the 
reply:  "I  know  it's  hopeless.  She's  simply  taking  the 
kindest  way  of  showing  me  that  she  wasn't  serious,  when 
'that'  happened." 

He  spoke  of  the  drawing-room  incident  as  if  it  were  the 
outstanding  experience  of  his  life.  And,  indeed,  in  all  his 
love  affairs,  Edward  had  never  reached  the  intimacy  of 
a  kiss.  .  .  . 

Dickie's  impatience  increased  rapidly  during  the  six  days 
of  that  misunderstanding. 


11*  THESE  LYNNEKERS 


IV 

The  new  phase  was  begun  by  a  letter  from  Mr.  Leake. 
He  wrote  to  Mr.  Lynneker:  "  .  .  .  that  splendid  fellow 
Grace  has  finally  decided  to  work  as  a  missionary  in  China, 
and  I  have  been  wondering  whether  your  son,  Edward, 
would  care  to  come  to  me  as  junior  curate,  as  soon  as  he 
has  taken  his  priest's  orders.  .  .  .?" 

Dickie  was  late  at  the  Bank  that  morning,  for  the  first 
time.  Edward  insisted  on  walking  with  him  as  far  as  the 
Grinling  wood. 

"It  must  mean  something,"  was  the  essence  of  Edward's 
argument.  "Surely,  if  she  never  meant  to  speak  to  me 
again"  (he  had  reached  that  stage  by  a  priori  methods), 
"she  would  have  done  something  to  prevent  the  Vicar 
from  writing  to  the  pater." 

Dickie,  uncomfortably  conscious  of  the  fact  that  he  had 
less  than  twelve  minutes  for  the  remaining  three  miles,  at- 
tempted to  be  shatteringly  conclusive. 

"Rather,"  he  agreed.  "Of  course,  she  would.  I  always 
told  you  you  were  being  depressed  about  nothing.  The 
mater  told  you  that  she  was  probably  ever  so  much  shyer 
than  you  are  yourself.  I  say  I  must  go." 

"Oh !  wait  half  a  shake,"  Edward  implored  him,  and  laid 
a  hand  on  his  brother's  sleeve. 

"I  shall  have  to  be  very  careful  not  to  offend  her  again," 
Edward  explained  and  began  to  outline  a  tremulous  plan 
of  campaign,  the  chief  attacking  movement  of  which  was 
to  be  a  patient,  beseeching  silence. 

"Oh!  I  shouldn't,"  Dickie  interrupted  him.  "Why  not 
be  a  little  brave  for  a  change  and  ask  her  right  out  ?" 

"You've  simply  no  idea  of  tact  or  decency,"  replied  the 
outraged  Edward.  "That  would  simply  put  her  off  alto- 
gether. You  don't  in  the  least  understand." 

"Perhaps  not,"  Dickie  agreed.  "Why  you  bother  to  tell 
me  about  it  1^  don't  know."  It  was  half-past  nine  by  then, 
and  his  patience  was  at  last  evaporated. 


EDWARD  US 

"Well,  you  needn't  be  a  cad,  anyway,"  Edward  returned, 
blushing  with  indignation. 

"I  suppose  it's  the  effect  of  working  in  a  Bank/'  Dickie 
said  as  he  threw  his  leg  over  the  saddle  of  his  bicycle. 

"I  should  have  thought  that  you  might  still  have  tried 
to  be  a  gentleman,"  was  the  reproof  that  followed  him. 

But  Edward  was  willing  to  reinstate  Dickie  that  evening, 
even  to  suggest  some  kind  of  apology  for  the  insult  that 
Dickie  had  forgotten.  Edward's  amende  was  another  ver- 
sion of  Latimer's  visit  to  the  stable-yard,  after  he  had  been 
so  disgracefully  licked  by  his  younger  brother.  The  Lyn- 
nekers  might  quarrel,  but  they  could  not  bear  the  fret  of 
sustaining  unfriendly  relations;  sooner  than  endure  that, 
they  preferred  graciously  to  admit  the  fault. 

Edward  had  not  been  into  Medborough  that  day  but  he 
was  going  to  the  Vicarage  to  tea  the  next  afternoon,  and 
despite  Dickie's  "caddish"  remarks  of  the  morning,  he  was 
evidently  expected  to  sympathise  with  the  re-elaboration  of 
the  policy  of  laissez  faire.  Presumably  Dickie's  morning 
comments  had  been  due  to  bad  temper,  and  were  to  be 
excused  on  the  ground  that  he  had  to  mix  with  some  "rather 
rotten  people"  at  the  Bank. 

Dickie  displayed  great  patience,  but  he  sincerely  hoped 
that  the  whole  affair  would  soon  be  settled  one  way  or  the 
other. 


The  serene,  almost  holy  elation  of  Edward's  face  when 
he  returned  from  Medborough  the  next  day  would  have 
been  sufficient  acknowledgement  of  the  fact  that  he  was  at 
last  "engaged" ;  even  if  the  affair  had  not  been  solemnly  reg- 
istered in  the  family  annals.  This  was  something  to  be  taken 
seriously,  and  Mrs.  Lynneker,  alone,  ventured  a  little  gentle 
chaff  over  the  supper  table.  Edward  frowned  sedately, 
with  an  air  that  tolerantly  deprecated  his  mother's  humour. 

Eleanor    apparently    considered    marriage    subject    for 


114  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

prayer  and  meditation;  Adela,  although  she  did  not  risk  a 
leading  question,  continually  looked  at  Edward  with  a  new 
curiosity,  as  if  she  had  been  surprised  by  some  aspect  of  him 
hitherto  unsuspected.  She  may  have  been  trying  to  see 
him  with  the  eyes  of  Miss  Leake. 

Dickie  fully  expected  to  be  haled  out  for  a  pipe  on  the 
lawn  after  supper,  and  on  this  occasion  he  was  not  unwill- 
ing. He  had  followed  the  affair  through  its  infinitely  tenta- 
tive stages,  and  he  was  curious  to  hear  how  the  last,  enor- 
mous chasm  had  been  bridged. 

But  when  they  all  rose  from  the  table,  Edward  exhibited 
no  particular  desire  to  be  alone  with  his  younger  brother, 
and  it  was  actually  Dickie  who  said : 

"Coming  out  for  a  breather?" 

"Might  as  well,"  Edward  replied  without  enthusiasm. 

And  when  they  were  outside  in  the  cool  air  of  the  gusty 
September  night,  he  began  to  talk  of  the  weather. 

"Blowing  up  for  rain,"  he  remarked.  "I  suppose  the 
summer's  over.  Always  depresses  me  rather  when  the 
autumn  begins  in  earnest." 

Dickie  mumbled  an  agreement,  and  then  went  on,  "How 
did  you  bring  it  off?" 

"It  wasn't  a  question  of  'bringing  it  off'  in  any  sense," 
Edward  returned  irritably.  For  a  man  who  had  won  his 
long-delayed  heart's  desire  a  few  hours  before,  he  was 
singularly  touchy,  Dickie  thought. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  apologised. 

For  a  few  moments  they  paced  the  lawn  without  speak- 
ing and  then  Edward  said : 

"It  isn't  a  thing  one  can  talk  about,  you  see.  Before  .  .  . 
before  anything  had  happened,  it  was  quite  different.  Now 
it's — it's  sacred,  if  you  can  understand  me?" 

"I  understand,"  Dickie  said.  "Shall  we  go  in?  It's  a 
bit  chilly  to-night." 

"You're  not  offended,  old  chap?"  Edward  asked,  with  a 
sudden  burst  of  affection. 

"Oh,  no !  rather  not."  Dickie  understood  that  he  was 
relieved  for  the  future  from  the  duties  of  a  confidant,  and 


EDWARD  115 

was  willing  enough  to  buy  himself  out  at  the  price  of  an 
unsatisfied  curiosity;  but  his  thoughts  returned  now  and 
again  to  the  problem  of  how  Edward  had  found  the  will 
or  the  courage  to  commit  himself  to  an  open  declaration. 


VI 

A  study  of  Miss  Leake  s  personality,  when  she  came  over 
to  Halton  a  fortnight  later,  helped  to  suggest  the  probabili- 
ties of  that  unreported  scene  in  Medborough  vicarage. 

Among  looser  social  influences  Miss  Leake  might  have 
developed  into  an  easy-mannered,  rather  loud,  warm- 
hearted young  woman  who  would  have  been  considered 
"bad  form"  in  the  Precincts.  Her  clerical  circumstances 
had  curbed  the  natural  expression  of  her  temperament, 
and  a  certain  abundance  of  vitality  in  her  found  an  outlet 
in  playing  games  with  remarkable  vigour.  She  was  the 
only  lady  tennis-player  in  the  Medborough  neighbourhood 
who  served  overhand. 

Dickie  liked  her.  He  found  her  a  "jolly"  girl  on  nearer 
acquaintance.  If  he  had  pressed  his  examination  a  little 
further,  he  might  have  discovered  that  it  was  her  general 
interest  in  life  that  appealed  to  him.  He  walked  with  her 
round  the  garden  after  tea,  and  showed  her  his  make-shift 
carpenter's  shop  in  the  stables ;  and  they  talked  without  em- 
barrassment. 

She  was  the  first  person  in  Dickie's  home  circle  who  had 
observed  the  peculiarities  of  Bradshaw's  appearance. 

"That  dear,  funny-looking  man  in  the  Bank,"  she  called 
him,  and  asked,  "What  is  he  like,  close  to  ?  Is  he  as  odd  in 
his  ways  as  he  is  to  look  at?" 

"Quite,"  Dickie  said.  "He's  a  born  funny  man,  you 
know.  Makes  you  yell  with  laughter  when  he  lays  himself 
out." 

"He  ought  to  go  on  the  stage,"  Miss  Leake  said,  and  her 
hackneyed  suggestion  had  some  warmth  of  interest  that 
saved  it  from  banality. 


11(5  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"He's  rather  queer  about  that/'  Dickie  told  her.  "Rather 
sensitive  about  being  made  fun  of,  I  think." 

"Poor  dear,"  commented  Miss  Leake,  as  if  she  would 
be  glad  to  stand  between  Bradshaw  and  the  unsympathetic 
world  who  laughed  at  him. 

It  appeared  that  she  had  a  second  Christian  name  and 
was  to  be  known  as  Helen  in  the  family; — Edward  pre- 
ferred it. 

"I  think  Gertie  suits  me  better,"  she  told  Dickie.  "Helen 
sounds  dark  and  statuesque,  but  I  don't  care,  really." 

"I  prefer  'Helen,'  too,"  Dickie  said,  and  wondered 
whether  his  future  sister-in-law  would  change  her  attitude 
towards  Bradshaw,  if  she  heard  of  his  epithet  for  her. 

"I  suppose  that's  because  you're  a  Lynneker,"  she  said. 

Dickie  did  not  understand  that  reason. 

"Always  a  bit  on  the  high  horse,"  she  explained. 

"Are  you  making  some  joke  about  Troy?"  he  asked. 

She  laughed.  "Goodness,  no,"  she  said.  "I  leave  classical 
jokes  to  father.  I  meant  that  you  are  all  just  a  wee  bit 
supercilious,  aren't  you  ?" 

"Are  we  ?"  asked  Dickie.  "/  didn't  know.  I'm  dead  cer- 
tain I'm  not." 

"Perhaps  you  aren't,"  she  said.  "But  you  do  all  of  you 
rather  keep  your  noses  in  the  air.  And  you  aren't  the  only 
people  who  come  from  Staffordshire,  you  know." 

"Funny!  It's  never  struck  me,"  Dickie  admitted.  "I 
always  thought  that  family  history  tosh,  myself.  But  I 
say,  Helen,  do  you  mean  that  Edward  and  Latimer  and 
Eleanor  and  Adela  put  on  side?" 

"Oh !  it  isn't  as  bad  as  that,"  she  assured  him.  "It's  just 
a  way  you  have.  I  shall  soon  chaff  Edward  out  of  it." 

The  statement  of  that  intention  seemed  in  some  way 
incongruous  to  Dickie ;  and  later,  when  he  saw  the  engaged 
couple  together,  he  wondered  if  the  marriage  would  be  a 
success.  He  knew  that  Edward  would  not  like  being 
"chaffed  out"  of  his  little  peculiarities.  He  had  always 
been  sensitive  about  being  chaffed  and  since  he  had  taken 
deacon's  orders  appeared  to  think  that  he  was  above  criti- 


EDWARD  117 

cism.    And  Helen  displayed  an  effect  of  managing  him  that 
even  then  Edward  resented  with  a  feebly  deprecating  frown. 
Dickie  decided  in  his  own  mind  that  Miss  Leake  had, 
also,  "managed"  that  proposal. 


VII 

If  she  had,  Edward  never  confessed  the  fact.  Indeed, 
he  had  quite  abandoned  confessions  to  either  Dickie  or  his 
mother. 

Mrs.  Lynneker  had  moments  of  uneasiness. 

"Do  you  think  Edward  is  really  in  love  with  Helen?" 
she  asked  Dickie  one  evening,  nearly  a  year  after  her  eldest 
son's  engagement. 

"I  don't  know,"  Dickie  said.    "He  never  confides  in  me." 

The  engaged  couple  had  been  at  the  Rectory  that  after- 
noon and  Helen's  tendency  to  management  had  been  more 
pronounced.  Once  Edward  had  fretfully  objected  to  one 
of  her  commands  and  had  been  laughingly  ruled  into  a 
submission  that  had  an  air  of  sullenness. 

"He's  so  like  your  father  in  some  things,"  Mrs.  Lynneker 
said. 

"She  bosses  him  rather,  doesn't  she?"  returned  Dickie. 

"She's  nice ;  I  like  her,"  his  mother  went  on  reflectively. 
"But  I'm  not  sure  that  she  understands  Edward." 

She  paused  on  that,  dimly  conscious,  perhaps,  that  she, 
too,  had  not  understood  when  she  had  married  Edward's 
father  nearly  thirty  years  before.  The  Lynnekers  were  a 
queer  family ;  their  men  never  seemed  to  make  happy  mar- 
riages. And  she  had  an  intuition  that  Edward,  also,  would 
have  reserves  from  his  wife;  that  those  two  would  carry 
on  the  tradition  and  live  separate  lives  under  one  roof. 
Helen  would  not  respect  his  weaknesses,  and  the  Lynnekers 
were  proud  of  their  weaknesses ;  they  wanted  not  comrade- 
ship, but  a  slavish,  worshipping  devotion. 

"I  feel  as  if  I  want  to  kick  him,  myself,  sometimes," 
Dickie  commented. 


118  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"Dick!"  expostulated  his  mother. 

"There's  something  so  weak-kneed  about  him,"  Dickie 
explained.  "I  should  like  to  see  him  absolutely  rude  to 
some  one,  for  a  change.  It's  all  this  slackness  of  trying 
always  to  please  the  people  you're  with,  that  annoys  me. 
Latimer's  just  the  same.  Every  one  says  they've  got  such 
nice  manners.  I  don't  know,  I'm  rather  glad  I  haven't." 

"You're  so  brave,"  Mrs.  Lynneker  said,  taking  her  son's 
arm.  "I  think  you  must  get  it  from  my  father.  He  never 
cared  what  he  said  to  people." 

"It  isn't  only  that,  you  know,"  Dickie  went  on.  "It's  that 
Edward  and  Latimer  never  do  anything.  I  can't  explain  it 
exactly,  but  you  know  what  I  mean,  don't  you  ?" 

"I  think  I  do,"  his  mother  said,  and  pressed  his  arm 
affectionately.  "I  know  some  one  who's  going  to  do  some- 
thing," she  added. 

"I'll  have  a  try,  anyhow,"  Dickie  admitted.  "But  it  is 
true,  mater,  isn't  it,  about  their  confounded  manners. 
Doesn't  it  annoy  you,  too,  sometimes?" 

She  was  a  little  uncertain  on  that  point,  despite  the  fact 
that  neither  Edward  nor  Latimer  had  been  as  tender  to 
her  as  Dickie.  But  in  her  heart  she  was  a  little  afraid  of 
her  youngest  son;  he  was  so  frank  and  so  strong.  And 
there  was  a  confession  she  knew  must  presently  be  made 
to  him,  for  she  dared  not  tell  his  father,  and  the  others 
were  not  in  a  position  to  help  her. 

Dickie  had  always  been  very  gentle  with  her,  but  she 
dreaded  the  making  of  that  confession. 


VIII 
MRS.  LYNNEKER 


MRS.  LYNNEKER  suffered  various  weaknesses  fos- 
tered by  her  early  Victorian  education.  She  had  a 
quick,  clever  mind;  she  could  quote  Shakespeare  with  rele- 
vance, not  by  the  suggestion  of  the  prominent  word,  and 
she  could  appreciate  and  savour  the  quality  of  his  phrase; 
she  could  be  witty  in  the  manner  of  her  period;  several 
good  things  were  credited  to  her  ;  she  was  a  capable  pianist. 
But  after  nearly  thirty  years  of  life  in  a  country  rectory, 
years  that  had  narrowed  and  hardened  her  in  many  ways, 
she  was  still  the  victim  of  certain  nervous  inabilities  en- 
couraged by  her  training. 

She  could  not  endure  to  ride  behind  a  horse  that  displayed 
the  least  tendency  to  shy;  she  was  terrified  by  the  sight  of 
a  gun;  she  hid  herself  in  a  cupboard  at  the  first  warnings 
of  a  coming  thunderstorm.  Without  doubt  she  was  by 
nature  a  timid  woman,  and  during  all  her  early  life  —  she 
had  not  married  until  she  was  twenty-nine  and  hopelessly 
passee  by  Victorian  standards  —  all  her  weaknesses  had  been 
sedulously  encouraged.  They  had  been  regarded  in  those 
days  as  the  marks  'of  proper  feminine  gentility.  If  she 
had  not  been  stiffened  by  the  comparative  robustness  of 
life  in  a  parsonage,  and  by  the  bearing  of  five  children,  she 
might  have  developed  the  affectations  and  vapours  of  the 
typical  spinster  of  that  time. 

She  had  been  saved  from  those  simpering  graces  and 
shallow  airs  by  the  urgency  of  her  life,  but  the  stamp  of 
her  early  lessons  in  conduct  had  left  a  mark  on  her  char- 

119 


120  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

acter.     She  was  a  moral  coward.     It  seemed  as  if  those 
cultivated  timidities  had  affected  her  mind  and  will. 


ii 

And,  indeed,  the  confession  she  had  now  to  face  might 
have  daunted  a  less  fearful  woman.  No  euphemisms  or 
excuses  could  palliate  the  horrid  fact  that  Mrs.  Lynneker 
had  been  guilty  of  a  crime  that  would  have  landed  any  of 
her  husband's  parishioners  in  the  police  court.  The  Rector 
had  made  no  overstatement  when  he  had  confided  to  his 
sons  that  their  mother  had  "no  idea  of  the  value  of  money." 

Her  father  had  lived  in  good  style  during  his  life-time. 
He  had  had  a  big  house  in  Bloomsbury,  had  kept  a  black 
servant,  and  moved  in  the  best  rank  of  a  society  that,  if 
its  most  distinguished  members  rose  no  higher  than  City 
knights,  could  boast  a  greater  wealth  than  the  aristocrats 
of  Belgravia.  But  when  he  died  two  years  after  his  young- 
est daughter's  marriage  to  the  Rector  of  Halton,  the  old 
merchant  had  made  no  further  provision  for  her  than  a 
charge  on  his  business  of  £60  a  year.  The  business  itself 
had  gone  to  his  two  sons,  both  of  them  married  and  with 
large  families,  and  they  complained  that  the  China  tea  trade, 
as  represented  by  the  firm  of  Williams  &  Son,  had  greatly, 
depreciated.  Mrs.  Lynneker  knew  that  she  could  expect  no 
financial  assistance  from  her  brothers. 

Her  sixty  pounds  a  year  should  have  sufficed  for  her 
needs,  but  she  was  generous  to  her  children,  liked  putting 
her  name  down  for  subscriptions,  and  when  she  went  into 
Medborough,  as  she  did  at  least  once  a  week,  she  invariably 
spent  more  than  she  had  intended — for  the  most  part  on 
trivialities  that  brought  her  no  kind  of  satisfaction  when 
the  delightful  act  of  purchasing  was  accomplished.  Quite 
early  in  her  married  life  she  had  begun  to  anticipate  her 
half-yearly  dividend,  but  by  such  shifts  as  postponing  the 
payment  of  bills  and  neglecting  her  wardrobe,  she  had  con- 
trived on  most  occasions  to  avoid  the  awful  ordeal  of 


MRS.  LYNNEKER 

appealing  to  her  husband  for  money.  Only  three  times  dur- 
ing their  married  life  had  she  dared  to  face  the  making  of 
that  request. 

The  Rector  certainly  had  not  made  the  way  easy  for 
her,  and  she  blamed  him  in  her  heart  for  driving  her  to  a 
less  legitimate  resort,  to  the  borrowing  of  money  from  the 
"Coal  Club." 

She  managed  the  Coal  Club  without  interference  from 
any  examining  authority.  The  members  paid  her  a  shilling 
every  month  throughout  the  year,  and  their  contributions, 
reinforced  by  charitable  subscriptions,  procured  them  a 
whole  ton  of  coal  at  Christmas.  Towards  the  fall  of  the 
year  Mrs.  Lynneker  would  have  charge  of  between  twenty 
and  thirty  pounds,  money  that  she  kept  in  cash  in  a  tin  box 
in  a  drawer  of  her  wardrobe. 

And  little  by  little  she  had  come  to  regard  this  horde  as 
a  bank  upon  which  she  might  draw  to  anticipate  her 
September  dividend — she  always  received  the  half-yearly 
allowance  from  her  brothers  on  the  25th  of  March  and  the 
29th  of  September — until  she  discovered  on  one  terrible 
occasion  that  if  she  were  to  pay  a  bill  that  had  been  run- 
ning for  over  three  years  and  had  become  unpleasantly 
pressing,  she  would  not  have  enough  left  to  make  good  her 
deficit  of  club  money,  to  say  nothing  of  fulfilling  her  prom- 
ises for  various  subscriptions  and  the  inconvenience  of  being 
left  without  a  single  penny  until  the  following  March. 

She  had  faced  her  husband,  then,  for  the  third  time  with 
the  firm  intention  of  making  a  full  confession.  But  that 
was  the  year  before  Dickie  left  Oakstone,  and  after  sum- 
moning up  her  courage  to  beg  the  interview,  her  spirit  had 
suddenly  failed  her  and  she  had  ended  by  asking  for  ten 
pounds.  It  was  not  a  third  of  what  she  required,  but  it 
seemed  an  enormous  sum  when  it  was  reluctantly  stated 
in  the  Rector's  study;  and  her  husband's  forbearing,  damn- 
ing silence  made  her  thankful  at  the  moment  that  she  had 
not  dared  to  be  decently  truthful. 

It  was  after  this  ineffectual  interview  that  she  fell  into 
the  clutches  of  the  "Medborough  Loan  Co." 


122  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

The  methods  of  that  institution  were  the  familiar  meth- 
ods of  its  type.  The  principal  never  appeared,  or  if  he  did 
was  so  well  disguised  by  the  assumption  of  being  his  own 
clerk  that  the  innocent  borrower  never  suspected  his  iden- 
tity. The  nominal  rate  of  interest  charged  was  ten  per 
cent.,  but  introduced  into  the  printed  form  of  agreement 
between  the  "loan  agent"  and  the  borrower,  were  various 
ingenuities  that  considerably  augmented  that  modest  charge 
for  the  use  of  the  capital  advanced.  Chief  among  these 
tricks  was  the  principle  of  making  the  sum  lent  repayable  in 
three  or  five  years  by  annual  instalments,  with  the  proviso 
that  if  any  instalment  was  not  repaid  within  seven  days 
of  the  due  date,  the  amount  of  it  should  be  debited  as  a 
new  loan,  bearing  the  same  rate  of  interest.  The  punctual 
borrower  who  was  not  too  hard  pressed,  might  escape  from 
the  clutches  of  the  Medborough  Loan  Company  without  fur- 
ther penalty  than  the  payment  of  about  twenty-five  per  cent, 
for  his  loan;  but  Mrs.  Lynneker  and  her  kind,  by  whose 
custom  the  Loan  Company  existed,  rolled  ever  deeper  and 
deeper  into  debt. 


in 

She  had  suffered  many  qualms  before  she  had  dared  to 
enter  those  inconspicuous  offices  in  Cross  Street;  but  she 
had  finally  burnt  her  boats  in  that  interview  with  her  hus- 
band, and  of  the  many  ignominies  with  which  she  was  faced, 
this  seemed  to  incur  the  least  open  disgrace.  Nevertheless 
she  realised  that  her  adventure  was  only  one  degree  less 
shameful  than  a  visit  to  the  pawnbroker's. 

The  path  of  the  borrower  was  made  easier  Dy  the  fact 
that  the  Loan  Company's  offices  were  sandwiched  vertically 
between  a  ground  floor  coal  merchant  and  a  photographer's 
studio.  Unless  the  victim  was  actually  caught  knocking  at 
the  prescribed  door,  he  was  safe  from  the  criticism  of  the 
casual  passer-by.  Mrs.  Lynneker  grasped  the  advantages 
of  the  strategical  position,  but  she  hesitated  painfully  before 


MRS.  LYNNEKER 

she  entered  the  building.  Even  when  she  was  actually 
facing  the  generous  invitation  to  "knock  and  enter,"  she 
nearly  turned  back. 

The  well-dressed  young  man  who  greeted  her  with  an 
appraising  stare  and  a  non-committal  "good  afternoon," 
further  increased  her  nervousness  by  his  air  of  aloofness. 
She  was  hot  and  flustered ;  her  veil  was  sticking  to  her  face, 
and  no  scrap  of  dignity  remained  to  her.  "Are  you  the 
Loan  Company?"  she  asked  desperately,  conscious  that  her 
enquiry  was  not  happily  phrased. 

"These  are  the  offices  of  the  Medborough  Loan  Com- 
pany," replied  the  smart  young  man  coldly,  and  added: 
"Are  you  desirous  of  effecting  a  loan  ?" 

"A  small  loan,"  Mrs.  Lynneker  said.  She  had  a  sense 
that  smallness  in  this  direction  must  be  a  guarantee  of  her 
good  faith.  She  was  prepared  at  this  eleventh  hour  to  halve 
the  minimum  amount  she  required  and  trust  to  Providence 
for  the  remainder. 

The  unconcerned  young  clerk  in  charge  conducted  her  to 
an  inner  room  before  he  enquired  the  extent  of  the  loan  she 
required.  He  had  judged  her  to  be  the  wife  of  a  small 
farmer  and  was  not  inclined  to  be  gracious.  He  even 
pursed  his  lips  at  the  mention  of  £10. 

"On  what  security?"  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Lynneker  blushed.  "In  your  advertisement  .  .  ." 
she  began. 

"In  some  cases  we  are  willing  to  advance  money  without 
security,"  was  the  reserved  answer.  "Are  you  married? 
Well,  would  your  husband  be  willing  to  guarantee  the 
amount  ?" 

Mrs.  Lynneker  blushed  still  deeper  and  set  her  lips.  She 
felt  horribly  degraded,  but  she  was  afraid  to  retreat  now. 

"I  would  sooner  not  ask  him,"  she  said. 

The  clerk  sighed  and  took  down  a  printed  form. 

"Will  you  fill  this  up?"  he  demanded. 

Mrs.  Lynneker  glanced  down  a  list  of  questions  that 
searched  her  private  life  to  its  depths.  She  had  nearly 
reached  that  extremity  of  the  meek,  when  submission  turns 


THESE  LYNNEKERS 

unexpectedly  to  aggression.  She  felt  that  she  could  face 
any  suspicion  of  the  well-dressed  clerk  sooner  than  fill  in 
that  paper.  Unhappily  for  her  he  saved  the  situation  by 
suggesting  that  she  might  give  him  her  name. 

She  admitted  to  "Lynneker." 

The  clerk's  change  of  manner  was  altogether  too  sudden. 
He  convicted  himself  of  a  gross  failure  in  tact;  but  his 
unhappy  victim  was  too  relieved  to  draw  uncomplimentary 
inferences  just  then.  Indeed,  the  thought  of  going  away 
empty-handed  opened  a  prospect  she  dared  not  contemplate. 

The  representative  of  the  M.  L.  C.  was  trying  to  retrieve 
his  mistake  by  explanation  of  his  fiduciary  cares,  but  the 
only  item  of  his  eloquent  appeal  that  touched  Mrs.  Lyn- 
neker came  at  the  end  of  his  speech.  "Will  ten  pounds 
really  be  enough,  Madam?"  he  asked.  "I  ought  to  explain 
that  one  year's  interest  is  payable  in  advance,  and  there  will 
be  charges  of  a  guinea  in  connection  with  the  agreement, 
including  the  stamp." 

She  knew  very  well  that  a  net  ten  pounds  would  repre- 
sent no  more  than  half  her  liability,  and  with  the  partial 
return  of  her  self-respect,  she  was  tempted  to  plunge.  The 
clerk's  new  manner  was  reassuring  and  his  explanation  of 
the  M.  L.  C.  methods  presented  them  as  peculiarly  framed 
to  meet  her  own  needs. 

She  resisted  weakly  until  he  reached  her  limit,  but  at 
thirty  pounds  she  stopped  him  with  determination.  She  had 
some  idea  at  that  time  of  repaying  the  whole  sum  when 
she  received  her  next  half-yearly  allowance,  and  the  men- 
tion of  that  precise  sum  of  £30  shocked  her  into  a  realisa- 
tion that  she  was  exceeding  her  capacity. 

She  experienced  but  the  faintest  twinge  of  conscience  as 
she  signed  the  agreement ;  and  when  she  was  safely  back 
in  Cross  Street  carrying  £25.19.0  in  cash,  her  last  doubt 
was  drowned  in  elation  at  the  knowledge  that  she  was,  at 
last,  saved  from  the  immediate  worry  that  had  so  terribly 
oppressed  her  during  the  past  few  months.  And  her  future 
obligations  were  in  effect  provided  for  by  the  fervour  of 
her  determination  to  set  aside  £15  of  her  March  allowance 


MRS.  LYNNEKER  125 

for  the  purposes  of  liquidation.  In  a  year,  she  thought 
hopefully,  she  would  be  "straight"  again,  and  in  future  .  .  . 

What  chiefly  betrayed  her  was  the  optimism  of  her  esti- 
mates. The  six  pounds  or  so  of  ready  money  that  she 
had  counted  upon  to  carry  her  on  to  March,  was  gone 
before  the  New  Year.  In  calculating  her  weekly  expenses 
she  had  overlooked,  among  other  items,  Christmas  presents 
for  her  own  children  and  for  that  long  tale  of  nephews 
and  nieces,  the  children  of  her  two  brothers  at  Highgate. 
She  had  always  sent  them  something,  she  argued;  it  would 
look  so  mean  not  to  send  them  anything.  And  then  she 
was  tempted  into  spending  more  money  upon  them  than 
usual. 

Another  drain  upon  her  resources  that  had  not  been  en- 
tered in  her  calculation  was  provided  by  the  house-accounts. 
She  paid  in  cash  for  various  items  of  household  expendi- 
ture, advancing  the  money,  herself,  against  her  husband's 
inclusive  cheque  at  the  end  of  the  month.  And  when  she 
came  to  make  up  her  books  and  found  that  the  total,  as 
always,  exceeded  her  anticipation,  she  was  tempted  to  omit 
any  record  of  her  own  cash  payment,  sooner  than  increase 
the  total  to  that  point  at  which  the  Rector  would  be  moved 
to  proclaim  that  he  didn't  know  how  much  longer  this  sort 
of  thing  could  go  on. 

Finally,  when  Dickie  went  into  the  Bank  and  there  seemed 
to  be  a  prospect  of  comparative  financial  security,  she  had 
a  brief  period  of  quite  unjustifiable  reaction  during  which 
she  bought  clothes  for  herself  and  Adela. 

By  February  she  was  at  the  Club  cash-box  again,  and 
that  autumn  her  indebtedness  to  the  Medborough  Loan 
Company  was  increased  by  six  pounds.  She  had  only  suc- 
ceeded in  saving  two  pounds  towards  her  first  re-payment 
instalment,  and  the  other  eight  were  officially  entered  as  a 
"further  loan." 

It  is  true  that  she  wondered  vaguely  why  it  was  that  she 
received  that  eight  pounds  neither  in  cash  nor  credit,  but 
the  intricacies  of  the  smart  young  man's  explanation  of 
what  he  called  a  "specific  term"  loan  convinced  her  that  the 


126  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

subtleties  of  high  finance  were  beyond  her  understanding. 
Two  years  later  her  debt  to  the  M.  L.  C.  was  over  fifty 
pounds,  and  she  had  decided  that  she  could  no  longer  bear 
the  strain  of  the  anxiety.  She  dared  not  tell  her  husband, 
but,  given  a  favourable  opportunity,  she  might  tell  Dickie. 
He  was  so  practical. 


IV 

She  would  have  preferred  to  wait  until  the  perfectly 
suitable  moment  presented  itself,  but  early  in  October,  a 
few  days  before  her  next  payment  became  due,  she  reached 
the  limit  of  her  endurance.  She  understood  clearly  enough, 
now,  that  this  "snowball"  system  of  borrowing  could  not 
go  on  indefinitely;  and  on  that  Sunday  evening  she  set  her 
lips  very  firmly,  made  an  excuse  to  the  Rector  for  missing 
evensong,  and  asked  Dickie  to  stay  at  home  with  her. 

"I've  got  a  confession  to  make,"  she  told  him,  and  was 
relieved  to  be  so  far  committed  by  the  statement  that 
retreat  was  impossible. 

If  it  had  not  been  Sunday  evening  she  would  have  had 
some  fancy  work  for  her  hands  to  play  with  while  she 
made  confession  to  her  youngest  son;  but  any  work  being 
out  of  place,  she  fiddled  with  the  fringe  of  the  antimacassar. 
She  sat  at  one  end  of  the  sofa,  and  Dickie  at  the  other, 
formally  separated  by  the  small,  oval  back  of  the  empty 
middle  seat — that  Victorian  piece  of  furniture  seemed  de- 
signed to  accommodate  two  parents  and  their  child,  all 
three  respectably  upright  and  prim.  No  one  could  have 
offended  propriety  by  reclining  on  such  a  frigid,  angular 
couch. 

Mrs.  Lynneker's  opening  was  framed  to  anticipate  a  cer- 
tain aspect  of  Dickie's  criticism.  Fear  of  censure  was  her 
dominant  emotion;  but  she  was  suppliant  to  the  little  boy 
she  had  nursed  and  taught  because  she  desperately  hoped 
to  retain  something  of  his  respect. 

"I've  got  myself  into  a  horrible  muddle,  dear;  and  I 


MRS.  LYNNEKER 

want  your  advice  as  a  business  man,"  she  began  hopefully 
and  with  a  touch  of  playfulness,  "the  only  business  man  of 
the  family." 

Dickie  nodded  and  frowned  slightly.  For  one  moment 
he  looked  unfortunately  like  his  father,  and  his  mother  ex- 
perienced a  chill  of  discouragement.  It  came  to  her  with 
alarming  clearness  now  that  the  need  to  put  her  confession 
into  words  was  inevitable,  how  little  excuse  she  had  for 
her  cowardice,  or,  at  least,  how  little  excuse  she  would  be 
able  to  plead,  if  her  last  confidant  were  to  take  up  the  atti- 
tude she  so  well  knew  and  dreaded. 

"Do  try  to  understand,  dear,"  she  pleaded  in  a  failing 
voice,  and  then  she  grasped  at  some  fiction  of  maternal 
dignity  and  added,  "You've  no  right  to  judge  me  until 
you've  heard  the  truth." 

"I'm  not,"  returned  Dickie,  with  the  specious  air  of  one 
advising  a  criminal  that  he  would  receive  fair  trial. 

Mrs.  Lynneker  wondered  if,  after  all,  she  could  go 
through  with  this  confession.  It  was  not  a  "fair  trial"  she 
wanted — she  had  already  pleaded  guilty — but  sympathy  and 
encouragement. 

"Oh !  Dick,  do  try  to  understand  my  position,"  she  said. 

She  knew  that  she  was  prejudicing  her  case  by  these 
ominous  preliminaries,  but  she  felt  that  she  could  not  state 
the  horrible,  repulsive  facts  in  cold  blood.  The  nearer 
she  came  to  the  framing  of  any  specific  statement,  the  more 
criminally  weak  her  own  conduct  appeared  to  her.  And 
yet,  half  an  hour  earlier  she  had  reached  the  pitch  of  be- 
lieving herself  abundantly  justified.  The  insuperable  diffi- 
culty that  stood  between  her  and  the  approach  to  Dickie's 
sympathy  was  the  impossibility  of  laying  the  blame  upon 
his  father's  shoulders. 

She  made  a  hopeless  attempt  by  beginning  again  with, 
"You  know  how  difficult  it  is  to  talk  to  your  father  about 
money.  .  .  ."  and  then  the  realisation  of  her  own  misery 
overcame  her.  She  made  a  final  effort  to  maintain  the 
respect  due  to  a  woman  of  fifty-seven  and  the  mother  of 
five  grown  children,  but  even  as  she  drew  herself  up  with 


128  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

the  flickering  intention  of  preserving  her  dignity,  she  sud- 
denly and  incontinently  burst  into  tears. 

And  even  then  she  sought  to  save  her  prestige.  She 
tried  to  escape ;  and  when  Dickie  stopped  her  in  the  middle 
of  the  room  with  a  strong,  sympathetic  hand  on  her  arm, 
she  made  a  petulant  effort  to  repulse  him. 

"It's  no  use — you  can't  any  of  you  understand,"  she 
blurted  out  girlishly,  relieving  her  heart  of  the  admission 
that  for  twenty-five  years  she  had  been  alone. 

"I  say,  mater,  I'm  fearfully  sorry.  I  suppose  I  didn't 
understand,  but  I'll  try  if  you'll  give  me  a  chance,"  Dickie 
said.  He  was  a  little  overwhelmed  and  embarrassed ;  the 
whole  scene  had  such  an  absurd  likeness  to  a  lovers'  quar- 
rel ;  but  he  was  hers,  now ;  completely  won  by  the  appeal  to 
his  strength. 

And  she  knew  so  well  when  that  tender  support  was  at 
last  offered  to  her  after  twenty-five  years'  loneliness,  that 
she  happily  forgot  the  dignity  due  to  her  age  and  pathetic- 
ally clung  to  him. 

"Oh  !  Dickie,  you  don't  know  what  tortures  I've  suffered," 
she  sobbed.  "I  wouldn't  let  your  father  know  for  worlds." 

"That'll  be  all  right,  mater,"  he  said.  "Come  along  and 
tell  me  about  it." 

It  seemed  impossible  for  those  two  to  achieve  a  sym- 
pathetic understanding,  unless  for  this  one  evening  they 
made  some  common  cause  against  the  man  who  was  at  that 
moment  on  his  knees  before  the  Almighty,  and,  in  his  own 
manner,  not  less  conscious  of  loneliness  than  his  wife. 


Yet,  after  all,  she  did  not  give  Dickie  her  full  confidence. 

All  her  ignominious  dealings  with  the  Loan  Company 
were  set  out.  Once  the  admission  of  her  first  weakness  was 
made,  the  rest  followed  as  a  matter  of  course.  But  she 
could  not  bring  herself  to  confess  her  misuse  of  the  Club 
money.  She  slurred  over  her  reasons  for  the  first  borrow- 


MRS.  LYNNEKER  129 

ing — she  had  anticipated  her  allowance.  Wetherall  had 
pressed  her  for  payment,  she  said ;  and  Dickie  made  further 
explanations  unnecessary  by  his  comment  that  young  Weth- 
erall had  been  in  rather  a  tight  corner  three  years  ago,  and 
had  collected  all  the  accounts  he  could. 

Dickie  was  not  curious  as  to  the  immediate  cause  of 
his  mother's  first  injudicious  visit  to  Cross  Street.  He 
wanted  to  come  as  quickly  as  might  be  to  figures ;  to  under- 
stand precisely  what  could  be  done  to  relieve  her  from  the 
burden  of  debt. 

"Well,  what's  the  total  now,  mater  ?"  he  asked,  interrupt- 
ing her  puzzled  account  of  how  the  loan  seemed  to  grow 
with  every  repayment. 

"Nearly  forty  pounds,  I  think,"  she  told  him,  and  his 
astounded  whistle  checked  her  impulse  to  be  quite  truthful 
and  admit  the  full  amount  as  an  afterthought.  "At  least 
I  think  so,"  she  added. 

"Have  you  got  any  account  of  it  ?"  was  his  next  question, 
and  she  got  up  and  produced  a  little  notebook  from  a 
drawer  of  her  secretaire. 

She  had  meant  to  hide  her  fuddled  record  from  him, 
but  he  came  up  to  her  end  of  the  sofa  and  looked  over 
her  shoulder. 

"You  mustn't  flurry  me,  dear,"  she  said  a  little  impa- 
tiently. 

Dickie  smiled  quietly.  "It's  all  right,  mater;  don't  you 
worry  any  more,"  he  said.  "But  you  must  give  me  all  the 
particulars.  I  know  it's  a  nuisance,  but  I  must  have  some 
sort  of  a  case  when  I  go  to  see  this  fellow  to-morrow." 

"Are  you  going  to  see  him?"  she  asked,  a  little  shocked 
and  frightened. 

"Of  course.     I  must." 

She  knew  that  it  was  useless  for  her  to  combat  that  quiet 
statement  of  his  intention,  and  she  preferred  that  he  should 
have  the  truth  from  her  rather  than  from  the  detestable 
young  man  in  Cross  Street. 

"I  began  by  borrowing  thirty  pound,"  she  said.  (Despite 
all  Edward's  well-intentioned  efforts  to  correct  her,  she 


130  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

occasionally  lapsed  into  the  habits  of  speech  she  had  learned 
from  her  father.) 

"Well,"  prompted  Dickie. 

She  understood  her  own  figures  and  she  could  infer  the 
dates.  Little  by  little  the  dreadful  climax  was  reached  and 
the  total  of  £51.15.0  declared. 

Dickie  hardly  seemed  to  notice  it. 

"But  good  heavens,"  was  his  comment,  "you  don't  mean 
to  say  you've  always  paid  the  interest  up  to  date  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  always,"  she  assured  him  with  a  new  hopeful- 
ness. 

"But  then  how  has  the  amount  increased?"  he  asked. 

"I  never  could  quite  make  out  why  it  did,"  she  said 
with  a  perplexed  sigh.  "The  man  did  explain  it  to  me.  I 
think  it  was  something  to  do  with  the  thirty  pound  only 
being  borrowed  for  three  years." 

"And  you  paid  the  interest  in  advance?" 

"Yes,  always." 

"I  suppose  you  realise  that  it's  a  most  infernal  swindle," 
Dickie  said. 

"Do  you  mean  that  I  might  get  out  of  paying  it?"  she 
asked. 

Dickie  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I  don't  know,  yet,"  he 
admitted.  "What  documents  have  you  got?  Receipts  and 
things?" 

"He  never  gave  me  a  receipt,"  she  said.  "I  was  very 
stupid  about  it  all,  I  know ;  but  I  dreaded  going  to  that  place 
and  I  was  so  afraid  of  a  fuss." 

Dickie  ruffled  his  hair.  He  saw  very  clearly  that  his 
mother  was  typical  of  the  average  borrower  from  the  Med- 
borough  Loan  Company.  They  were  all  afraid  of  a  fuss,  and 
the  company  thrived  on  the  use  it  made  of  that  knowledge. 

"I  can't  db  anything  till  I've  seen  the  chap,"  he  said. 

For  a  moment  or  two  they  sat  in  silence  and  then  Mrs. 
Lynneker  held  up  her  hand. 

"Listen!"  she  said. 

From  the  church,  less  than  three  hundred  yards  away, 
came  the  sound  of  a  deep,  musical  rumble,  above  which 


MRS.  LYNNEKER  131 

they  could  intermittently  distinguish  the  faint  lilt  of  a  tune. 

"Can  you  hear?"  Mrs.  Lynneker  asked. 

"  'Lead  Kindly  Light/  I  think,"  was  Dickie's  judgment. 

His  mother's  look  of  anxiety  returned. 

"Yes,"  she  agreed.  "It's  the  hymn  after  the  sermon. 
They'll  be  out  in  a  minute  or  two." 

"Well,  look  here,  mater,  there's  no  earthly  need  for  you 
to  worry  any  more,"  Dickie  assured  her.  "You  leave  it 
absolutely  to  me.  I'll  see  this  swindling  beggar  to-morrow ; 
and  even  if  I  can't  do  anything  with  him,  I'll  get  the  money 
somehow." 

She  put  out  her  hands  to  him. 

"You've  no  idea  of  the  weight  you've  taken  off  my  mind, 
dear,"  she  said. 

Dickie  kissed  her. 

"You  ought  to  have  told  me  before,"  was  his  only  re- 
proach. 

She  made  no  answer  to  that.  She  would  have  liked, 
even  now,  to  make  final  confession;  to  tell  him  that  she 
had  hidden  something  from  him.  It  seemed  that  that  one 
reservation  was  still  interposed  between  her  and  the  under- 
standing and  sympathy  which  were  so  suddenly  possible. 
And  yet,  she  dared  not  tell  him  the  story  of  the  Coal  Club 
money ;  not  because  that  peculation  seemed  to  her  a  serious 
sin,  but  because  she  knew  intuitively  that  Dickie  would  be 
shocked.  Her  mind  worked  on  that,  without  making  fur- 
ther discovery.  She  covered  her  fault  and  believed  that 
her  own  reservation  was  the  ultimate  barrier  between  her 
and  her  son.  If  she  had  gone  a  little  deeper  she  would  have 
understood  that  it  was  the  fundamental  difference  between 
their  modes  of  thought. 

She  hesitated  another  moment  before  she  ventured  to 
say  timorously,  with  a  hint  of  apology,  "I  should  have  liked 
to  have  had  a  little  prayer  with  you  about  it." 

"Oh,  all  right,  mater,  if  you  like,"  Dickie  returned  care- 
lessly. He  was  coming  to  dislike  the  particular  form  of 
petition  that  he  expected  on  this  occasion.  He  had  begun 
to  wonder  whether  Edward  and  Eleanor,  for  example, 


THESE  LYNNEKERS 

would  not  have  done  better  to  trust  more  to  their  own 
efforts  and  less  to  the  merciful  interposition  of  Providence 
on  their  behalf.  Both  of  them  had  the  habit  of  praying 
for  things,  and  accepting  refusal  as  a  sign  that  they  were 
not  "intended"  to  have  them.  Edward  had  prayed  con- 
siderably at  one  time  about  Miss  Leake,  and  Dickie  had  felt 
then  that  the  method  was  nothing  less  than  an  attempt  to 
evade  responsibility.  Eleanor  submitted  every  trifling  inci- 
dent of  her  life  to  the  Court  of  Heaven. 

"If  you  like,"  he  repeated  as  he  got  up  from  the  sofa, 
and  then  he  added,  with  a  self-conscious  frown,  "But  all 
the  same,  I  feel  that  it  isn't  much  good  praying  about  things 
if  you  never  try  to  do  them." 

Mrs.   Lynneker  looked  slightly   distressed. 

"St.  Paul  says  we  are  to  'pray  without  ceasing,'  "  she 
said  in  that  weakly  obstinate,  half-ashamed  manner  she 
had  always  worn  when  she  had  given  religious  instruction 
to  the  children. 

"Yes,  but  we've  surely  got  to  buck  up  a  little  on  our 
own  account  as  well,"  argued  Dickie. 

She  agreed  to  that  with  the  reservation  that  "we  must 
not  trust  too  much  to  our  own  powers,"  and  the  discussion 
saved  Dickie  from  the  actual  performance  of  the  ceremony, 
for  while  they  were  still  talking  they  heard  the  sound  of 
voices  outside,  and  of  steps  on  the  gravel  drive. 

"Here  they  are;  it's  too  late  now,"  he  said,  with  obvious 
relief. 

"I'm  afraid  you're  a  little  careless  about  religious  matters, 
dear,"  Mrs.  Lynneker  said  with  evident  steadfastness. 

She  had  succeeded  in  recovering  some  fragment  of  ma- 
ternal authority,  but  the  achievement  gave  her  little  satis- 
faction. 

Adela  came  in,  flushed  and  excited,  with  a  long  story  of 
how  "one  of  those  dreadful  boys  in  the  free  seats"  had 
smuggled  a  dog  into  church,  and  of  how  "Young  Frank 
Oliver  had  been  rather  splendid"  and  had  got  up  in  the 
middle  of  the  sermon  and  turned  the  dog  out. 

Frank  Oliver  was  the  son  of  the  village  carpenter. 


MRS.  LYNNEKER  133 

"Decent  chap,  young  Oliver,"  Dickie  said.  "He's  awfully 
good  at  his  work — much  too  good  for  a  little  place  like 
this." 

Adela  thought  somebody  ought  to  thank  him  for  what 
he  had  done  in  the  church. 


VI 

Before  Dickie  went  to  Cross  Street  next  day  he  made  a 
casual  enquiry  of  Mr.  Bell,  and  discovered  that  the  nominal 
proprietor  of  the  Medborough  Loan  Co.  was  a  certain  Mr. 
"George  Smith"  who  had  a  very  creditable  account  with 
the  City  &  County,  an  account  to  which  he  almost  invariably 
paid  in  in  bank  notes,  and  drew  upon  by  cheques  payable 
to  his  own  order. 

"Must  have  another  account  somewhere/'  Mr.  Bell  said, 
and  then,  looking  at  Dickie  with  a  fatherly  air,  added,  "I 
hope  you  don't  intend  to  patronise  him,  Lynneker?  I've 
good  reason  to  believe  that  that  Loan  Company  is  a  rather 
doubtful  affair." 

"Rather  not,  sir,"  Dickie  assured  him. 

The  young  man  in  Cross  Street  was  suave  and  slippery. 
He  evidently  knew  his  visitor  by  sight,  and  the  "good  morn- 
ing, Mr.  Lynneker,"  with  which  he  was  immediately  greeted 
warned  Dickie  that  he  must  exercise  all  his  discretion. 

"I  believe  my  mother,  Mrs.  Lynneker,  borrowed  a  sum 
of  thirty  pounds  from  you,  three  years  ago,"  he  began 
abruptly. 

"It  is  possible,"  admitted  Mr.  Smith.  "I  could  not  say 
for  certain  without  referring  to  my  books." 

"Well,  will  you  look  it  up?"  asked  Dickie.  "I  want  to 
discuss  it  with  you." 

Mr.  Smith  politely  refused. 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  do  that,  Mr.  Lynneker,"  he  said.  "As 
a  bank  official  you  will  understand,  I'm  sure,  that  all  our 
transactions  are  necessarily  personal  and  private." 

"I'm  here  on  my  mother's  authority,"  Dickie  returned. 


134  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"You  have  a  written  authority?" 

Dickie  cursed  himself  for  a  fool.  He  ought,  he  knew, 
to  have  anticipated  that  demand.  "I  haven't  a  written  au- 
thority," he  said. 

Mr.  Smith  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  made  a  gesture 
with  his  two  hands  as  if  he  were  testing  the  weight  of  an 
empty  parcel. 

"But  it  surely  isn't  worth  your  while  to  quibble  over 
that,"  Dickie  said.  "If  you  won't  discuss  it  to-day  I  shall 
come  back  with  the  written  authority  to-morrow." 

"If  you  would  do  that,"  replied  Mr.  Smith,  and  politely 
opened  the  door.  "We  have  to  be  so  particularly  careful 
in  our  business,"  he  explained. 

"I  can  quite  understand  that,"  Dickie  said  with  emphasis. 

Mr.  Smith  smiled  as  if  he  had  been  complimented. 

"What  time  shall  you  be  here  to-morrow  ?"  asked  Dickie. 

"I  shall  not  be  in  Medborough  again  until  Thursday,"  Mr. 
Smith  said,  "but  one  of  the  other  clerks  .  .  ." 

"Aren't  you  the  principal  then?"  Dickie  put  in. 

Mr.  Smith's  deprecating  gesture  implied  that  he  could 
not  take  that  suggestion  seriously. 

"But  you  are  the  responsible  manager  ?"  Dickie  persisted. 

"I  am  allowed  to  exercise  a  certain  discretion,"  Mr. 
Smith  admitted. 

"Well,  what  time  on  Thursday,  then?"  Dickie  asked. 

"Three  o'clock?" 

When  he  was  back  in  the  office  Dickie  remembered  that 
he  had  forgotten  to  ask  the  man  if  his  name  were  George 
Smith.  A  reference  to  Bradshaw,  however,  clearly  fixed 
the  identity. 

"Greasy-mannered  blighter,"  was  Bradshaw's  description 
of  the  depositor,  George  Smith.  "Paddles  about  with  his 
hands  and  smiles  at  you  as  though  you'd  just  been  kind  to 
him." 

"That's  the  beggar,"  agreed  Dickie.  "You're  sure  he  is 
George  Smith?" 

"Seen  him  draw  a  cheque,"  Bradshaw  said. 

"Does  he  draw  notes  as  well  as  gold?"  asked  Dickie. 


MRS.  LYNNEKER  135 

"Big  'uns,  sometimes." 

"Any  of  'em  ever  come  back  here?" 

Bradshaw  could  not  answer  that  question,  but  Dickie 
found  time  to  make  a  few  investigations  before  he  saw  Mr. 
Smith  again. 

VII 

Mrs.  Lynneker  demurred  strongly  to  the  suggestion  that 
she,  also,  should  go  to  Cross  Street  on  the  following  Thurs- 
day, but  Dickie  was  patiently  resolute  and  overbore  her 
objections. 

"He's  such  a  beastly,  slippery  beggar,"  he  explained.  "It's 
ten  to  one  he'll  wriggle  out  of  it  somehow  if  I  go  alone." 

"And  you  must  bring  that  little  notebook,"  he  added, 
"and  you  might  help  me  to  make  a  clear  statement  of  the 
account  for  my  own  use." 

The  only  consolation  Mrs.  Lynneker  received  lay  in  the 
explanation  that  she  was  not  expected  to  say  anything  un- 
less appealed  to  by  her  representative.  She  was  merely  to 
act  as  a  document,  for  reference.  .  .  . 

She  sat  through  the  first  part  of  the  interview  with  a 
set  frown  of  magnificent  determination.  She  knew  she  was 
unequal  to  any  struggle  with  the  evasive,  intimidating 
Smith;  but  she  believed  that  her  expression  of  stony  dis- 
approval would  be  a  help  to  Dickie  in  his  tremendous  un- 
dertaking. 

Not  until  Mr.  Smith  politely  intimated  that  she  had 
actually  received  the  various  additions  to  her  loans  in  cash 
paid  over  that  very  counter,  did  she  awake  to  positive  in- 
dignation. When  she  had  to  choose  between  the  contempt 
of  Mr.  Smith  and  that  of  Dickie,  she  suddenly  lost  her 
fear  of  asserting  herself. 

"Indeed,  I  never  did,"  she  put  in.  "The  only  money  I 
had  was  the  twenty-six  pound  I  borrowed  first." 

"Thirty  pounds,"  corrected  Mr.  Smith. 

Dickie  interfered  to  stop  the  threatened  quibble  as  a  side 
issue. 


136  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"Thirty  pounds,"  he  agreed,  "less  interest  in  advance  and 
the  cost  of  the  agreement.  There's  no  dispute  about  that. 
I  want  to  know,  now,  what  evidence  you  have  of  having 
lent  a  further  sum  of  over  twenty  pounds  in  cash  ?" 

Mr.  Smith  nodded  in  the  soothing  manner  of  one  de- 
ferring to  the  wishes  of  a  petulant  child,  and  produced  a 
numbered  cardboard  box,  from  which  he  extracted  various 
receipts  bearing  the  authentic  signature  of  Mrs.  Lynneker. 

"You  signed  all  these?"  Dickie  asked,  turning  to  his 
mother. 

"I  understood  it  was  a  necessary  matter  of  form,"  she 
explained  timidly. 

"You  acknowledged  receiving  money  in  cash  that  you 
never  had  ?"  Dickie  expostulated. 

Mrs.  Lynneker  saw  an  ironical  smile  ~ound  the  corners 
of  Mr.  Smith's  mouth. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  she  said  firmly. 

"Oh,  damn  it!"  Dickie  murmured  quite  audibly. 

Mr.  Smith  permitted  his  eyebrows  to  express  a  faint  dis- 
approval. 

"Our  books  are  quite  open  to  examination,  so  far  as 
they  refer  to  this  particular  transaction,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  doubt  that  you've  protected  yourself  pretty 
well,"  Dickie  growled.  "This  is  obviously  a  case  for  the 
police." 

"Or  for  a  libel  action,"  put  in  Mr.  Smith  suavely. 

"It  doesn't  matter  much  which  so  long  as  it  comes  before 
the  court,"  was  Dickie's  opinion.  "You've  been  obtaining 
money  under  false  pretences,"  he  went  on,  "and  nothing  will 
stop  you,  I  suppose,  but  a  prosecution." 

Mr.  Smith  appeared  to  be  bored.  "If  that  is  Mrs.  Lyn- 
neker's  intention  .  .  ."  he  began. 

.  She  shook  her  head  in  great  distress  and  looked  pathetic- 
ally at  her  son. 

Dickie  scowled  gloomily. 

"How  much  will  you  take  to  settle  this  account?"  he 
asked. 


MRS.  LYNNEKER  137 

Mr.  Smith  glanced  wearily  at  the  ledger  he  had  brought 
out  and  put  on  the  counter. 

"Fifty-one  pounds,  fifteen  shillings  is  the  amount  still 
owing,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  I  know,  and  how  much  will  you  take  in  settle- 
ment?" asked  Dickie. 

Mr.  Smith  smiled  sweetly. 

"Fifty-one  pounds,  fifteen  shillings,  Mr.  Lynneker,"  he 
said. 

"And  if  we  refuse  to  pay  it?" 

"I  should,  most  unwillingly,  have  to  take  the  usual  steps 
for  recovery." 

"You  would  have  the  impudence  to  prosecute?" 

Mr.  Smith  pursed  his  mouth  and  nodded  gravely. 

"Don't  you  think,  dear  .  .  ."  Mrs.  Lynneker  began  on  a 
tremulous  note  of  appeal. 

Dickie's  frown  cut  her  short. 

"I  think  you'd  better  go,  mater/'  he  said. 

She  got  up  obediently  and  then  looked  anxiously  at  her 
son,  blinked  her  eyes  and  made  a  movement  of  her  head 
towards  the  door.  Dickie  knew  that  she  wanted  to  make 
him  promise  not  to  let  the  matter  come  into  court  "what- 
ever happened."  He  felt  that  he  had  blundered  badly  in 
his  conduct  of  the  whole  affair.  In  the  first  place  he  ought 
to  have  come  with  a  written  authority,  and  in  the  second  he 
had  made  a  foolish  mistake  in  insisting  that  his  mother 
should  be  present  at  the  interview.  She  had  handicapped 
him  hopelessly. 

"Oh,  leave  it  to  me,  mater,"  he  said  irritably;  but  as  he 
opened  the  door  for  her,  he  smiled  gently  and  added :  "It'll 
be  all  right." 

And  for  once  she  found  a  quality  of  real  assurance  in 
the  family  phrase. 

Mr.  Smith  was  looking  at  his  watch. 

"Now,"  Dickie  said  with  a  new  confidence  in  his  voice. 

"I  have  nothing  more  to  say,  Mr.  Lynneker,"  Mr.  Smith 
returned;  and  his  manner  intimated  that  he  had  no  more 
time  to  spare. 


138  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"Will  you  take  thirty  pounds  in  final  settlement?" 

Mr.  Smith  smiled  contemptuously,  slapped  his  ledger 
together,  and  returned  it  to  the  shelf  behind  him. 

"You  see  it's  like  this,"  Dickie  said  quietly.  "I  can  raise 
thirty  pounds;  but  that  is  my  limit.  If  you  insist  on  a 
penny  more,  my  father  must  be  told  about  the  whole  busi- 
ness." 

Mr.  Smith  had  turned  his  back  and  was  apparently  ab- 
sorbed in  studying  the  contents  of  another  account  book. 

"Tell  him,  then,"  he  snapped  without  looking  up. 

Dickie  decided  that  it  was  time  to  play  his  last  card.  He 
was  doubtful  of  its  value;  his  facts  were  deduced  from 
questionable  inferences  and  the  production  of  his  authority 
was  impossible  without  revealing  some  of  those  office  secrets 
he  was  pledged  to  guard.  He  had,  indeed,  decided  that  he 
would  not,  in  any  case,  play  that  particular  card.  But  he 
was  full  of  a  righteous  anger  that  was  directed  not  so 
much  against  Mr.  Smith  in  person,  as  against  the  system 
he  represented. 

Dickie  had  had  his  first  near  sight  of  gross  misdealing 
and  injustice;  and  he  was  greatly  shocked  by  the  realisa- 
tion that  such  institutions  as  the  Medborough  Loan  Company 
could  flourish  by  preying  upon  any  unfortunate  who  came 
within  its  grasp.  He  had  to  believe,  moreover,  that  such 
frauds  could  prosper  under  the  eyes,  as  it  were,  of  English 
law.  If  his  mother's  case  came  before  the  magistrates, 
they  might  believe  her  assertion  that  those  "further  loans" 
had  been  purely  imaginary,  but  they  would  be  unable  to 
give  a  judgment  in  her  favour  in  face  of  the  indisputable 
documentary  evidence.  And  the  injustice  of  it  angered 
him  beyond  endurance.  He  felt  that  it  was  his  duty  to 
champion  the  cause  of  the  oppressed,  even  if  he  risked  dis- 
missal from  the  Bank. 

He  made  a  strong  effort  to  recover  his  self-control  before 
he  said: 

"Very  good,  Mr.  Smith,  if  you  persist  in  refusing  to  ac- 
cept a  settlement,  I'm  going  to  take  this  affair  up.  Not  in 
my  mother's  name."  He  paused  and  carefully  weighed  the 


MRS.  LYNNEKER  139 

form  his  statement  should  take  before  he  continued,  still 
addressing  the  callous  back  of  his  audience,  "I  shall  have 
an  unofficial  meeting  of  some  of  your  creditors.  There  is, 
for  instance,  Mrs.  Barrett,  who  keeps  the  small  general 
shop  in  Cowgate;  William  Powell,  the  farmer,  of  Yax- 
well;  the  chap  upstairs;  Mr.  Atcherley  of  Narrow  Street, 
and — oh,  half  a  dozen  others  whose  names  I  needn't  men- 
tion just  now.  .  .  ." 

He  broke  off  to  judge  the  effect  he  was  making. 

Mr.  Smith  had  put  down  his  account  book  and  was 
standing  very  still.  The  attitude  of  his  back  suggested 
rigid  attention.  And  when,  at  last,  he  turned  round  and 
put  his  hands  on  the  counter,  his  face  was  noticeably  pale. 

"Are  you  accusing  the  company  of  fraud?"  he  asked. 

"I  am,"  Dickie  said  with  feeling. 

"And  that  being  so,  you  are  willing  to  compound  a  felony 
for  the  amount  mentioned?  Or  is  this  merely  an  attempt 
at  blackmail  ?" 

Dickie  stood  up. 

"You  are  quite  right,  Mr.  Smith/'  he  said.  "I've  made  a 
third  mistake.  I  see  that  this  particular  account  must  be 
paid  in  full  before  any  action  is  taken.  You  shall  have  the 
amount  to-morrow." 

"We  might  allow  a  discount  for  prompt  settlement," 
returned  Mr.  Smith,  watching  his  adversary  warily,  and 
trying  to  calculate  precisely  how  much  he  would  take. 

Dickie  picked  up  his  hat. 

"Oh !  Lord,  no,"  he  said  with  a  laugh.  "You've  warned 
me.  I'll  admit  I  didn't  understand  what  I  was  doing  be- 
fore; but  I  do  now.  The  money  shall  be  paid  in  full, 
to-morrow." 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  decided  that  any  veiled  threat, 
however  satisfying  to  his  feelings,  was  out  of  place,  and 
then,  disregarding  the  invitation  to  "wait  a  minute,"  he 
went  out,  closing  the  door  behind  him  with  a  slam  which 
so  startled  the  photographer  upstairs  that  he  dropped  the 
plate  he  was  developing. 

"All  right,  my  boy,"  murmured  the  photographer.    "Now 


140  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

you've  done  it;  smashed  the  one  perfect  portrait  I  ever 
took.  That  goes  down  per  contra  and  wipes  out  my  debt 
to  the  uttermost  farthing." 

He  kicked  the  broken  glass  under  the  shelf  with  a  pleased 
smile. 

"Wish  I'd  never  started  these  infernal  midgets,"  he  re- 
marked. 


VIII 

Mrs.  Lynneker  greeted  her  son  with  an  anxious  face. 

"No  good,"  he  said  curtly. 

"Whatever  are  we  to  do?"  she  implored  him. 

"Pay  it,"  he  said. 

"But  won't  that  mean  telling  your  father?"  she  expostu- 
lated. 

"We  ought  to  have  told  him  before,"  Dickie  said. 

His  mother's  face  set  into  the  expression  of  weak  stub- 
bornness that  meant  she  would  not  be  driven.  Her  chil- 
dren had  come  to  learn  that  when  they  had  driven  her  to 
that  defence,  she  could  neither  be  bullied  nor  entreated  into 
submission. 

"I  can't  do  that,"  she  said  obstinately. 

"I've  told  him  that  the  whole  amount  will  be  paid  to- 
morrow," Dickie  said,  and  went  on :  "Look  here,  mater,  we 
shall  just  have  time  to  catch  the  3.55  if  we  hurry." 

She  had  intended  to  do  a  little  shopping,  but  it  was  early- 
closing  day,  and  she  gave  way  on  that  question  with  the 
one  proviso  that  she  must  get  some  fish  in  Broad  Street, 
which  was  on  their  way  to  the  North-Western  Station. 
Dickie  went  with  her,  leaving  his  bicycle  at  the  Bank. 

Mrs.  Lynneker  hardly  spoke  as  they  walked  the  half- 
mile  to  the  station.  She  was  quite  determined  that  she 
would  not  confess  to  her  husband,  and  she  was  regretting 
her  weakness  in  having  confided  in  Dickie.  He  had  done 
no  good  and  had  now  become  a  source  of  further  tribula- 
tion to  her.  She  knew  that  she  would  have  great  difficulty 


MRS.  LYNNEKER  141 

in  persuading  him  that  she  could  not  and  would  not  ask  his 
father  for  the  money. 

She  maintained  her  obstinate  silence  during  the  fifteen 
minutes  of  the  railway  journey.  There  were  two  other 
people  in  their  compartment  and  conversation  would  have 
been  difficult  in  any  case.  But  when  they  had  come  out 
of  Halton  Station  (two  platforms  and  a  tiny  house  stand- 
ing in  the  fields  a  mile  away  from  the  village),  she  opened 
the  topic  by  saying  firmly: 

"I  can't  tell  your  father." 

She  was  prepared  for  an  argument  of  the  kind  that  was 
familiar  to  her  in  dealing  with  her  husband  and  children. 
The  usual  counter  to  such  an  assertion  as  she  had  just 
made  was,  "Oh,  mother,  why  not?"  followed  by,  "But  I 
can't  see.  .  .  ."  And  she  knew  that  she  had  only  to  persist 
in  her  determination  against  those  weak  responses  in  order 
to  defend  herself.  None  of  them  was  equal  to  maintaining 
an  attack  against  that  stubborn,  veiled  defence;  the  single 
assertion,  reiterated  without  argument.  Yet  she  had  never 
deliberately  adopted  those  tactics  to  win  small  victories. 
She  was  not  capable  of  that.  Only  when  she  was  fully 
convinced  in  her  own  mind  could  she  thus  resolutely  per- 
sist in  making  her  one  unshakeable  affirmation. 

Dickie  surprised  and  shook  her  defences  from  the  out- 
set. He  ignored  her  declaration,  and  went  on  with  an 
undercurrent  of  anger :  "I  offered  him  thirty  pounds,  and 
when  he  asked  me  if  I  accused  him  of  fraud  and  I  said 
'Yes,'  he  put  it  that  if  I  thought  that,  I  was  offering  to 
compound  a  felony.  He  was  right  enough  there,  you  know, 
mater.  I  hadn't  thought  of  that,  but  directly  he  said  it, 
I  saw  that  I  had  been  taking  a  bad  line  altogether.  If  it 
were  only  you  he'd  swindled  it  wouldn't  matter  so  much, 
but  there  are  heaps  of  other  unlucky  beggars  in  it,  too.  And 
we  can't  do  a  blessed  thing  to  help  'em  while  we  owe  this 
blighter  money  ourselves.  I'm  going  to  put  it  all  straight 
to  the  pater  this  evening.  That  slimy  beast,  Smith,  must 
be  paid  to-morrow,  and  after  that  .  ,  ."  Dickie's  expres- 


THESE  LYNNEKERS 

sion  implied  that  Mr.  Smith  was  going  to  have  a  particularly 
unpleasant  time. 

Mrs.  Lynneker  realised  that  a  mere  repetition  of  her 
assertion  would  be  quite  out  of  place.  She  was  not  con- 
verted, but  she  was  greatly  confused. 

"I  don't  see  what  your  father  could  do,"  she  ventured 
weakly;  "I'm  sure  he  wouldn't  like  to  be  mixed  up  in  any- 
thing of  that  kind." 

"Rather  not,"  agreed  Dickie.  "His  job  will  begin  and 
end  by  settling  our  account  with  Smith.  The  rest  I'm  going 
to  tackle  on  my  own." 

"I  would  much  sooner  not  say  anything  to  your  father," 
persisted  Mrs.  Lynneker. 

"Oh,  I'll  do  that  all  right,"  returned  Dickie  cheerfully. 

"But  you'll  have  to  tell  him  .  .  ." 

"Everything.  I  know.  We've  got  to  be  perfectly  honest 
about  it  all.  We'll  never  beat  Mr.  Smith  at  his  own  game." 

Mrs.  Lynneker  winced,  and  thought  of  the  Coal  Club. 
"I  can't  see  that  I've  been  dishonest,"  she  said  with  an 
injured  air. 

"Not  in  a  way,"  Dickie  replied,  brutally.  "But  what  I 
meant  is  that  we've  got  to  be  perfectly  frank  and  open. 
That  little  beast  in  Cross  Street  gave  me  a  shock  when  he 
suggested  that  I  was  trying  to  blackmail  him — he  said  that, 
too.  He  was  so  dead  right.  And  just  at  the  last  he  offered 
me  a  discount  for  a  cash  settlement ;  the  only  time  he  came 
anywhere  near  giving  himself  away." 

"And  you  didn't  take  it?"  asked  Mrs.  Lynneker  with  a 
surprise  which  showed  that  she  had  still  failed  to  grasp  her 
son's  ethic. 

"Well,  of  course  not,"  he  explained  patiently.  "My  dear 
old  mater,  can't  you  see  yet  that  if  the  man's  a  swindler,  we 
can't  let  him  go  on  swindling?  We  must  stop  him,  some- 
how. And  we  can't  do  a  blessed  thing  until  we've  paid 
him  in  full.  Even  if  we  accept  a  discount,  we  are  con- 
doning his  methods,  and,  in  a  sense,  putting  ourselves  under 
an  obligation  to  him." 

"But  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  his  mother  asked. 


MRS.  LYNNEKER 

"Get  him  prosecuted,"  replied  Dickie  promptly.  "You 
needn't  worry  about  that.  He  can't  drag  us  in,  if  our 
affair's  settled  and  done  with." 

And  yet,  with  the  feeble  persistence  of  the  weak,  Mrs. 
Lynneker  made  one  more  effort,  as  she  and  Dickie  came 
to  the  door  of  the  Rectory  garden.  The  sight  of  the  familiar 
place  revived  all  her  old  dreadful  anticipations.  She  could 
see  her  husband's  frown  and  hear  that  exasperating  doubt 
repeated  as  to  how  much  longer  this  sort  of  thing  could 
go  on. 

"I  would  so  much  rather  not  tell  your  father,"  she  said. 

"Must,"  was  Dickie's  only  rejoinder. 


IX 

Both  the  Rector  and  his  wife  came  to  a  recognition  of 
some  unfamiliar  quality  in  the  mental  calibre  of  their 
youngest  child  during  his  conduct  of  the  loan  affair. 

The  difference  between  him  and  the  rest  of  his  family, 
a  difference  that  none  of  the  Lynnekers  was  able  to  analyse, 
lay  in  the  fact  that  he  was  not  thinking  of  the  effect  he 
was  producing  on  his  immediate  audience.  He  was  intent, 
in  this  particular  matter,  on  destroying  what  he  regarded 
as  a  crying  evil.  His  effort  to  rescue  his  mother  had 
brought  home  to  him  the  methods  of  the  Loan  Company 
and  incidentally  the  type  of  victim  it  entrapped.  The 
detail  of  its  extortions  had  outraged  the  sense  of  commer- 
cial fair-dealing  he  had  learnt  at  the  City  &  County,  and 
then  he  had  entered  through  an  intuition  of  his  mother's 
weakness  into  an  understanding  of  the  hardships  imposed 
upon  those  other  unfortunates,  who  as  he  had  correctly 
enough  inferred  from  his  comparison  of  bank-note  num- 
bers, were  being  driven  and  cheated  by  the  unscrupulous 
Mr.  George  Smith.  They,  too — Mrs.  Barrett,  old  Powell, 
the  farmer ;  the  struggling  photographer,  Atcherley  the  sad- 
dler in  Narrow  Street — were  all,  no  doubt,  making  a  des- 
perate fight  to  avoid  the  misery  and  disgrace  of  failure; 


144  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

and  were  without  question  being  preyed  upon  in  different 
ways  by  the  money-lender. 

Dickie  was  full  of  an  indignation  that  had  been  brought 
to  a  fever  heat  by  his  own  rebuff;  and  in  his  characteristic 
manner  he  was  bent  upon  saving  these  poor,  small-spirited 
people  from  the  results  of  their  own  imprudence. 

And  whereas  Edward,  Latimer  or  their  father  would 
Have  considered  in  the  first  place  how  such  an  effort  would 
present  themselves  in  the  eyes  of  their  audience,  Dickie 
tumbled  headfirst  into  the  fight  without  a  single  thought  of 
how  the  conduct  or  the  issue  of  the  campaign  would  affect 
himself. 

His  enthusiasm  carried  him  triumphantly  through  the 
interview  with  his  father,  who  almost  forgot  that  he  was 
being  bled  to  satisfy  an  incredibly  foolish  debt  of  his  wife's, 
in  the  thought — so  abundantly  suggested  by  Dickie's  fire  of 
righteous  purpose — that  he  was,  in  effect,  financing  a  just 
and  magnificent  cause. 

Mrs.  Lynneker,  trembling,  and  yet  at  the  same  time 
nursing  a  distinct  sense  of  grievance,  in  the  sitting-room, 
was  amazed  into  silence  when  her  husband  presently  called 
her  into  the  study,  not  to  frown  or  complain,  but  to  forgive. 

They  achieved  something  approaching  an  understanding 
that  evening.  When  her  husband  had  shown  that  he  was 
willing  to  sympathise  with  her  trouble,  the  tightness  of  her 
mouth  relaxed,  and  then  her  reaction  carried  her  so  far 
that  she  came,  at  last,  to  full  confession.  Indeed,  she  found 
it  easy,  once  she  had  admitted  her  weakness,  to  tell  her 
husband  the  essential  fact  she  had  withheld  from  Dickie. 

It  was  the  request  that  her  one  criminal  failing  should 
be  kept  from  their  son,  that  brought  them  to  a  considera- 
tion of  Dickie's  quality. 

The  Rector  had  taken  much  the  same  view  as  his  wife 
regarding  the  use  of  the  Coal  Club  funds  as  a  temporary 
means  of  accommodation.  He  shook  his  head  gently,  and 
gave  no  sign  of  being  outraged  by  the  thought  that  his  wife 
might  have  appeared  in  the  eye  of  the  world  as  a  fraudu- 
lent trustee.  Possibly  he  took  consideration  of  the  fact 


MRS.  LYNNEKER  145 

that  at  the  last  resort  she  would  have  come  to  him,  and 
any  esclandre  would  have  been  avoided. 

They  prayed  together  and  afterwards,  feeling  as  if  they 
had  come  out  of  great  tribulation,  they  warmed  to  an 
appreciation  of  Dickie's  instrumentality. 

"I  shouldn't  like  him  to  know — about  the  Club  money," 
Mrs.  Lynneker  said,  and  her  husband  agreed  with  a  readi- 
ness he  might  have  found  it  hard  to  defend. 

'"A  queer  boy!"  he  commented. 

"He's  so  practical,"  Mrs.  Lynneker  said. 

"And  so  tremendously  full  of  energy.  He  completely 
carried  me  away  with  his  fury  against  this  horrible  money- 
lender. But,  honestly,  I  don't  see  what  the  boy  can  do. 
I  hope  he  won't  involve  us  in  any  way." 

"He  said  not"  Mrs.  Lynneker  said.  "He  told  me  that 
after  this  dreadful  money  was  paid,  the  man  could  not 
possibly  bring  us  in." 

"Dick  has  got  his  head  pretty  well  screwed  on,  I  think," 
the  Rector  commented,  with  a  glow  of  pride.  "I  should 
feel  very  much  inclined  to  trust  his  common-sense." 

"He's  very  clever;  I'm  sure  he's  tremendously  clever," 
his  wife  agreed,  and,  after  a  moment's  silence,  she  added: 

"I'm  so  glad  it's  all  over." 

That  evening  the  father  and  mother  came  to  a  tender- 
ness for  each  other  and  a  mutual  pride  in  their  children 
that  they  had  not  felt  for  twenty  years.  They  were  united 
by  a  strong  emotional  experience  and  believed  that  in  future 
they  would  understand  each  other  better.  They  made  re- 
solves to  be  more  forbearing,  like  a  young  married  couple 
after  their  first  quarrel,  although  the  Rector  was  only  three 
years  short  of  seventy  and  his  wife  but  ten  years  younger. 

And  if  they  were  far  too  old,  not  in  years  but  in  habit, 
to  alter  their  manner  of  life  or  thought,  they  at  least 
achieved  a  glow  of  sympathy  and  happiness  that  faded  al- 
most imperceptibly ;  and  they  were  certainly  awakened  to  a 
new  respect  for  Dickie — respect  tinged  with  a  fear  that 
neither  of  them  would  admit. 


IX 

GEORGE   SMITH 


A  NOTHER  individual  who  came  to  fear  Dickie  within 
-/~V  the  next  few  weeks  was  Mr.  George  Smith. 

Dickie  went  to  Cross  Street  at  lunch  time  next  day,  pro- 
duced the  full  amount  of  his  mother's  debt  in  cash,  and 
demanded  a  carefully  worded  form  of  release. 

Mr.  Smith  made  no  quibble  about  that.  He  was  exceed- 
ingly polite  and  gracious,  but  at  the  same  time  quite  busi- 
nesslike. He  took  the  draft  of  the  receipt  Dickie  produced, 
and  obediently  copied  it  in  his  own  handwriting  on  a  form 
bearing  the  imprint  of  the  company.  And  until  that  was 
done,  he  made  no  effort  at  conciliation. 

Dickie  had  taken  up  his  hat  and  was, about  to  leave  the 
room,  when  Mr.  Smith  said: 

"I  don't  think  you  realise,  Mr.  Lynneker,  how  different 
our  business  is  from  that  of  a  Bank." 

Dickie  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  his  surprise  at  that 
astonishing  statement.  "I  thought  I'd  made  that  clear 
enough,"  he  returned,  looking  suspiciously  at  Smith.  "If  I 
haven't,  I  can  tell  you  that  that's  about  the  one  thing  I 
have  realised." 

"On  one  side  only,"  Mr.  Smith  submitted  with  a  slightly 
injured  air.  "What  you  haven't  realised,  Mr.  Lynneker,  is 
that  we  are  a  butt  for  every  swindler,  and  that  we  have  to 
protect  ourselves  as  best  we  can." 

"By  taking  it  out  of  other  people  in  order  to  make  your 
losses  good?" 

"No,  Mr.  Lynneker."    Mr.  Smith  looked  Dickie  steadily 

146 


GEORGE  SMITH  147 

in  the  face.  "If  you  would  give  me  time  to  explain  .  .  ." 
he  said. 

"Go  on,"  returned  Dickie. 

"The  principle  that  we  have  adopted  to  protect  our- 
selves is  that  of  the  short-term  loan,"  Mr.  Smith  explained. 
"In  our  agreement  we  make  it  quite  clear  that  the  rate  of 
ten  per  cent,  only  applies  to  loans  repayable  within  a  speci- 
fied time,  and  failing  repayment  what  we  do  is,  in  effect,  to 
raise  the  rate  of  interest." 

"And  the  amount  of  the  capital?" 

"We  never  insist  upon  the  repayment  of  that  extra  capi- 
tal, Mr.  Lynneker.  It  is  only  a  device  to  protect  ourselves. 
But  we  are  absolutely  bound  to  insist  upon  the  full  amount 
up  to  a  certain  point  of  the  negotiations.  It  may  not  ap- 
pear to  you  businesslike ;  I  admit  that  it  is  not ;  but  unhap- 
pily for  us,  nearly  all  our  dealings  are  with  unbusinesslike 
people." 

"But  you  insisted  in  this  case  .  .  ."  put  in  Dickie. 

"Pardon  me,  sir,  you  insisted,"  replied  Mr.  Smith  firmly. 
"And  we  are  prepared,  now,  as  we  always  are,  to  refund 
any  money  that  you  claim  was  not  due  to  us." 

Dickie  fingered  the  receipt  in  his  jacket  pocket. 

"Well,"  he  sai'd,  "as  the  interest  has  always  been  paid,  I 
suppose  all  my  mother  really  owed  you,  was  the  original 
thirty  pounds." 

"Not  quite  all  the  interest  was  paid,"  Mr.  Smith  said. 
"I  looked  up  the  account  this  morning,  and  found  that  the 
amount  we  are  willing  to  forgo,  is  nineteen,  thirteen,  seven." 

"Do  you  want  any  acknowledgment  of  that?" 

"We  have  a  special  form.  .  .  ." 

Dickie  shook  his  head. 

"But  in  this  case  .  .  ."  Mr.  Smith  added  quickly. 

"I'm  not  going  to  accept  any  bribes,"  Dickie  said. 

"Oh,  bribes!"  repeated  Mr.  Smith  with  a  laugh,  and 
went  through  his  business  with  the  imaginary  parcel.  "There 
is  no  possible  question  of  bribes,  Mr.  Lynneker.  Our 
business  together  is  settled  and  done  with." 


148  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"Not  yet,"  Dickie  said,  and  went  out  before  the  other 
could  reply. 

Mr.  Smith's  expression  changed  on  the  instant  from  po- 
lite forbearance  to  the  bitterest  malignity.  On  his  mantel- 
piece were  a  carafe  of  water  and  a  tumbler — possibly  for 
use  in  the  case  of  a  client's  sudden  collapse.  He  took  the 
tumbler  in  his  hand,  glared  at  it  for  a  moment,  dashed  it 
violently  into  the  grate,  and  then  stamped  furiously  upon 
the  broken  glass.  After  he  had  thus  relieved  his  over- 
burdened feelings,  he  rang  the  gong  on  his  desk,  told  the 
office  boy  who  answered  it  to  clear  away  the  mess  in  the 
grate,  took  out  a  slip  of  paper  on  which  were  entered  the 
names  of  the  clients  mentioned  by  Dickie  the  day  before, 
and  set  himself  with  great  deliberation  to  compose  four 
letters. 

Nevertheless,  Mr.  Smith  spoke  English  without  any  trace 
of  a  foreign  accent. 

ii 

Dickie's  first  grave  mistake  had  been  his  warning  to 
Smith  that  their  business  together  was  not  "settled  and 
done  with";  his  second  was  to  approach  Mr.  Bell  with  a 
perfectly  true  account  of  his  sources  of  evidence. 

Mr.  Bell  was  shocked.  He  was  an  honest  man  and  a  good 
Christian.  His  faith  was  not  a  convenient  form  of  insur- 
ance on  which  he  paid  a  weekly  premium  of  devotion  to 
cover  the  sinful  risks  of  business  life.  His  belief  in  God 
was  only  second  to  his  belief  in  the  Bank,  and  in  theory 
he  put  God  first.  But  in  practice  his  loyalty  to  the  Bank 
was  the  ruling  motive  of  his  life. 

He  made  it  quite  plain  to  Dickie  that  on  no  account  what- 
ever could  he  countenance  any  use  of  the  sacred  evidence 
in  his  keeping  in  order  to  confound  the  Medborough  Loan 
Company.  Incidentally  he  made  it  clear  that  he  had  no 
wish  to  lose  the  charge  of  Mr.  Smith's  deposit. 

"But  there's  no  doubt  that  the  man's  a  beastly  swindler, 
sir,"  urged  Dickie. 


GEORGE  SMITH  149 

"That  does  not  come  within  our  province,  Lynneker," 
Mr.  Bell  said  gravely.  "I  am  greatly  perturbed  to  hear 
that  you  have  already  broken  your  trust.  It  is  a  very 
serious  matter;  most  serious.  I'm  not  at  all  sure  what  I 
ought  to  do  about  it.  But,  in  any  case,  it  must  go  no  fur- 
ther." 

"You  mean  that  you  would  have  to  sack  me,  sir?" 

"I'm  afraid  so,  Lynneker.  I  should  be  exceedingly  sorry 
to  do  so.  You  are  the  most  promising  clerk  who  has  ever 
worked  with  me,  and  I've  no  doubt  whatever  that  you'll 
rise  to  a  very  high  place  in  the  Bank — with  ordinary  pru- 
dence. But  .  .  ."  and  Mr.  Bell  insisted  with  perfect  steadi- 
ness that  any  further  breach  of  trust  must  be  punished 
by  dismissal. 

The  whole  matter  came  up  again,  and  with  a  new  heat, 
after  Mr.  George  Smith  had  called  on  Saturday  morning 
to  close  his  account. 

Smith  was  too  clever  a  man  to  be  vindictive.  He  had 
no  intention  of  adding  to  the  irritation  of  Mr.  Richard 
Lynneker  by  complaining  to  the  manager  that  the  secrecy 
of  his  accounts  had  been  violated.  But  Smith  had  a  weak- 
ness. In  certain  matters  he  was  timid;  and  he  could  not 
rest  while  he  knew  that  the  details  of  his  business  might 
be  ferreted  out  by  the  clever  deductions  of  the  boy  who 
had  so  distinctly  threatened  him. 

Smith's  present  game  was  mollification,  but  he  had  not 
the  courage  to  let  his  accounts  continue  to  pass  through 
the  City  &  County. 

"He  made  no  kind  of  complaint,"  Mr.  Bell  reported,  when 
Dickie  had  been  summoned  to  the  manager's  private  room, 
"and  it  was,  of  course,  impossible  for  me  even  to  hint  that 
there  had  been  any  leakage  of  private  information." 

"Didn't  mention  me?"  Dickie  interpolated. 

"Certainly  not.  He  didn't  bring  any  charge  against  us 
of  any  sort ;  but  there  can  be  no  question  why  he  has  with- 
drawn his  account;  none  whatever.  I  am  very  distressed 
about  the  whole  affair,  Lynneker.  I  shall  have  seriously 
to  consider  what  to  do  about  it." 


150  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

Dickie  meditated  for  a  moment  and  then  said  cheerfully : 
"Anyway,  now  he's  no  longer  a  depositor,  there's  no  rea- 
son why  I  shouldn't  go  for  him,  is  there,  sir?" 

"There's  every  reason,"  snapped  Bell.  "If  you  antagonise 
Mr.  Smith  he  will  put  a  report  about  through  the  town  that 
we  make  a  private  use  of  our  knowledge  of  customers'  busi- 
ness. We  should  lose  half  our  depositors." 

"He  wouldn't  do  that,  sir,"  Dickie  said. 

"We  mustn't  run  the  risk,"  Bell  returned. 

"If  he  did,  you  know,  sir,  we  could  prosecute  him  for 
libel  in  no  time,"  Dickie  went  on,  "and  I'm  absolutely  cer- 
tain the  chap  would  cut  his  right  hand  off  to  keep  out  of 
court.  Besides  that,  sir,  I  shouldn't  think  his  influence  in 
the  town  would  have  the  least  weight  against  yours.  You 
are  frightfully  well  known  and  trusted,  I  mean — and  I 
should  think  he's  suspected  by  lots  of  people." 

Mr.  Bell  was  sincerely  flattered  by  the  perfect  sincerity 
of  Dickie's  compliment.  To  be  "frightfully"  well  known 
and  trusted  was  the  report  of  himself  for  which  he  had 
patiently  laboured. 

"I'm  sure  it's  very  good  of  you,  Lynneker,"  he  mur- 
mured, and  he  saw  a  picture  of  a  despised  chorister  on  his 
first  day  at  the  King's  School,  regarding  the  "gentlemen 
boarders"  with  eyes  of  awed  respect.  "They  don't  mix 
with  us,  o'  course,"  one  of  his  fellow  choristers  had  told 
him. 

Dickie  failed  to  appreciate  the  allusion  for  a  moment, 
and  then  wondered  why  his  chief  should  have  been  so 
evidently  pleased. 

"Oh,  that!"  Dickie  said,  and  imperceptibly  a  faint  note 
of  condescension  crept  into  his  tone.  "I  should  have 
thought  you  could  have  taken  that  for  granted,  sir." 

Mr.  Bell  looked  up  and  blinked  modestly. 

"I  hardly  know  what  grounds  you  base  that  estimate  of 
me  upon,  Lynneker,"  he  said,  smiling. 

Dickie  wanted  to  push  that  aside  and  passed  it  by  saying, 
"Oh,  well,  my  father's  always  told  us  how  much  you  were 
respected  and  trusted  in  the  town." 


GEORGE  SMITH  151 

Mr.  Bell  blushed. 

"But  about  this  chap,  Smith,  sir,"  Dickie  went  on. 

Mr.  Bell  waved  a  deprecatory  hand. 

"Never  mention  it  to  me  again,  please,  Lynneker,"  he 
said.  "I  must  insist!  So  long  as  I  am  a  servant  of  the 
Bank,  I  must  consider  the  Bank's  interests  before  anything 
else." 

He  made  the  statement  with  pride.  He  seemed  glad  to 
admit  that  he  was  a  bank-manager  first,  and  an  independent 
individual  afterwards  in  so  far  as  the  tendency  of  his  pri- 
vate impulse  did  not  conflict  with  his  theory  of  official 
integrity.  He  was  a  kind  man  and  generous,  and  his  great- 
est ambition  was  to  be  a  trustworthy  servant. 

"I  must  go  on  with  this  affair,  you  know,  sir,"  Dickie 
said. 

Mr.  Bell  clicked  his  tongue.  "So  long  as  you  don't  make 
use  of  our  private  information,  and  don't  mention  the  thing 
to  me,  Lynneker,"  he  said,  and  made  a  stammering  gesture 
with  his  hand  to  indicate  that  the  Medborough  Loan  topic 
was  finally  dismissed. 

Dickie  accepted  that  dismissal  as  a  permission  to  do  what 
he  liked,  if  he  observed  the  two  restrictions  his  chief  had 
specifically  imposed. 


Ill 

With  a  respect  for  authority  that  had  not  been  shaken 
by  his  sight  of  Mr.  Bell's  limitations,  he  went  to  see  the 
Medborough  chief  of  police. 

Chief  Inspector  Barnes  listened  attentively  to  Dickie's 
account  of  Mr.  Smith's  methods,  and  then,  by  way  of  an- 
ticipating criticism,  remarked: 

"We've  had  our  eye  on  the  fellow  for  some  time." 

"Well,  it  ought  to  be  pretty  easy  to  scotch  him,"  re- 
sponded Dickie  hopefully. 

The  Chief  Inspector  drew  a  writing-pad  towards  him, 
and  dipped  his  pen  in  the  ink. 


152  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"You  say  that  this  account  you've  given  me  particulars 
of  has  been  paid,  Mr.  Lynneker?"  he  asked. 

Dickie  nodded. 

"And  the  principal  in  that  affair  would  not  appear  in 
evidence  ?" 

"No." 

"Then  who's  to  prosecute?" 

"Can't  you?" 

"On  what  grounds?" 

"Can't  you  raid  the  place?" 

"We've  no  evidence  on  which  to  obtain  a  warrant;  but 
in  any  event  this  wouldn't  be  a  case  for  a  raid." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  can't  do  anything  ?"  asked  Dickie. 

"I  think  not,  at  present,  Mr.  Lynneker,"  Barnes  returned 
judicially.  "As  I've  said,  we've  got  an  eye  on  this  fellow, 
and  I've  no  doubt  that  he'll  hang  himself  in  time  if  we 
give  him  plenty  of  rope." 

"Meanwhile  he's  to  go  on  swindling  any  unlucky  beggar 
he  can  get  hold  of?" 

The  Inspector  looked  rather  offended. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mr.  Lynneker,"  he  said,  "this  Loan 
Company  has  not,  so  far  as  I  can  judge,  put  itself  within 
reach  of  the  law  as  yet.  The  case  you  summarised  would 
only  be  one  for  a  civil  action  for  recovery;  and  even  so, 
I  doubt  very  much  if  you  would  get  a  verdict." 

"I  know;  I  thought  of  that,"  Dickie  admitted.  "But  if 
we  were  to  threaten  this  chap,  Smith  .  .  ." 

The  Inspector  shook  his  head  reprovingly. 

"Come,  come,  now,  Mr.  Lynneker,"  he  said,  "you  must 
see  that  we  couldn't  possibly  proceed  on  those  lines." 

"You  couldn't  think  of  any  scheme  .  .  ."  Dickie  began, 
but  Mr.  Barnes  was  far  too  good  a  servant  of  the  Med- 
borough  corporation  to  consider  wild  schemes  for  the  trap- 
ping of  criminals. 

"We  must  give  this  fellow  a  little  rope,  Mr.  Lynneker," 
he  said  firmly.  "The  police  have  to  be  very  careful  not 
to  go  outside  their  own  province.  Careful  as  we  are,  it 
has  happened  before  now,  I  assure  you,  that  we  have  had 


GEORGE  SMITH  153 

one  or  two  raps  over  the  knuckles  at  the  Sessions  for  ex- 
ceeding our  duty.  I  can  promise  you  that  we  shall  con- 
tinue to  keep  an  eye  on  this  fellow,  and  when  the  occasion 
offers  .  .  ."  The  Inspector  rose  solidly  to  his  feet  and 
held  out  his  hand.  .  .  . 

Dickie  went  on  to  see  Mrs.  Barrett,  the  old  widow  who 
kept  a  small  general  shop  in  Cowgate.  She  did  not  know 
him  by  sight  and  the  cheerful  "Good  afternoon,  sir,"  with 
which  she  greeted  him  was  merely  an  anticipation  of  prob- 
able custom. 

"Good  afternoon,  Mrs.  Barrett,"  Dickie  replied,  and 
added :  "You  are  Mrs.  Barrett,  aren't  you  ?  I  want  to  see 
you  about  the  Medborough  Loan  Company." 

"Oh,  dear,"  was  Mrs.  Barrett's  alarmed  response,  and  she 
sat  down  suddenly  on  a  stool  that  was  evidently  her  habitual 
seat,  so  promptly  and  instinctively  did  she  locate  it.  For 
one  moment  Dickie  caught  an  expression  in  her  face  that 
reminded  him  of  his  mother. 

"Is  it  about  the  letter  you  wrote  me  ?"  the  old  lady  asked. 

"No,  I  don't  come  from  the  Loan  Company,"  Dickie  ex- 
plained. "I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  them.  They've  been 
swindling  you,  you  know." 

"And  what's  it  got  to  do  with  you,  young  man?"  asked 
Mrs.  Barrett ;  "and  might  I  ask  'ow  you  come  to  know  about 
it?" 

"Does  that  matter?"  Dickie  said. 

Mrs.  Barrett  seemed  to  think  that  it  mattered  consider- 
ably. 

"I'm  sorry.  I  can't  explain  how  I've  come  to  know  that 
you've  borrowed  from  these  Loan  people,"  Dickie  said, 
"but  I  know  that  they're  jolly  well  thieves  and  I  want  to 
prosecute  them." 

"Dear,  dear,"  commented  Mrs.  Barrett  sympathetically, 
"you  'aven't  nothin'  to  do  with  the  police,  'ave  you?"  she 
added  with  a  touch  of  alarmed  suspicion. 

"Nothing  whatever,"  Dickie  said. 

"An'  what  is  it  you  want  with  me,  young  man?"  asked 
Mrs.  Barrett. 


154  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"I  want  you  to  refuse  to  pay  anything  more  to  the  Com- 
pany," Dickie  said,  and,  in  answer  to  Mrs.  Barrett's  stead- 
fast shake  of  the  head,  he  went  on :  "It  won't  be  only  you, 
you  know.  There  are  some  other  people  in  the  same  hole 
I'm  going  to  see.  I  want  you  all  to  stick  together." 

"I've  always  kept  myself  honest/'  Mrs.  Barrett  said. 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course,"  Dickie  agreed. 

"And  I  don't  want  my  affairs  talked  about." 

"They  won't  be.  The  only  people  who  will  know  will 
be  a  few  other  people  who  have  borrowed  from  the  Loan 
Company,  too." 

"  'Oo  are  they  ?"  enquired  Mrs.  Barrett  innocently. 

Dickie  smiled.  "I  can't  tell  you  yet,"  he  said ;  "not  until 
I  get  their  permission." 

Mrs.  Barrett  considered  that  statement  with  an  expres- 
sion of  approval. 

"An*  you  won't  tell  no  one  about  me,  till  I  say  you  may, 
then?"  she  asked. 

"Certainly  not,"  agreed  Dickie. 

Mrs.  Barrett  rose  with  some  little  difficulty  from  her 
stool  and  summed  up. 

"Well,  you  go  and  see  them  others  first,  young  man," 
she  said.  "There's  somethin'  about  you  as  rather  takes  my 
fancy,  but  you're  rather  young,  it  seems  to  me,  for  what 
you're  tryin'  to  do.  That  Mr.  Smith's  rare  an'  artful. 
But  you  go  and  see  them  others,  and  I'll  talk  it  over  with1 
my  son-in-law,  George  Cummin.  .  .  ." 

"The  chemist  in  Priestgate?"  put  in  Dickie. 

"Yes,  that's  'im,"  replied  Mrs  Barrett,  and  looked  up  at 
Dickie  with  an  expression  of  simple  cunning. 

"He  knows,  then,  that  you've  borrowed  from  Smith?" 
commented  Dickie. 

"  'E  do,"  returned  Mrs.  Barrett,  still  wearing  that  look 
of  searching  scrutiny.  "  'Ow  many  'ave  you  got  on  your 
list?"  she  asked. 

"Only  four  besides  yourself,"  Dickie  admitted. 

"Any  of  'em  live  in  Priestgate?" 


GEORGE  SMITH  155 

Dickie  realised  then  why  Mrs.  Barrett  had  confided  in 
her  son-in-law. 

"Does  Mr.  Cummin  owe  them  money,  too?"  he  asked. 

"Oh!  that's  neither  'ere  nor  there,  young  man,"  Mrs. 
Barrett  said. 

"The  more  people  I  can  find,  you  know  .  .  ."  began 
Dickie. 

"Of  course,"  Mrs.  Barrett  agreed.  "An'  meanwhile, 
p'raps,  you'll  go  on  with  your  calls  and  give  me  another 
look  in,  in  a  day  or  two's  time?" 

"Oh,  all  right,  I  will;  thanks  very  much,"  Dickie  said. 

He  raised  his  hat  as  he  went  out. 

Mrs.  Barrett  looked  after  him  with  an  expression  of 
decided  approval. 

IV 

Mr.  Atcherley,  the  saddler  of  Narrow  Street,  angrily 
denied  any  knowledge  of  the  Loan  Company.  He  was  a 
small,  freckled  man  with  sandy  hair  and  he  seemed  to 
regard  Dickie's  visit  with  an  irritable  suspicion. 

"Young  Mr.  Lynneker  from  the  Bank,  isn't  it  ?"  he  asked ; 
and  when  Dickie  had  persuaded  him  back  into  the  solitude 
of  his  workshop,  he  was  obviously  on  the  defensive. 

"Medborough  Loan  Company?  What's  that  got  to  do  with 
me?"  was  the  line  he  took,  and  made  it  quite  clear  that  he 
strongly  resented  any  interference  with  his  private  affairs. 

"Oh,  all  right,  Mr.  Atcherley,"  Dickie  concluded,  rather 
in  the  Lynneker  manner ;  "I  suppose  I  've  made  a  mistake." 

"You  'ave,"  assented  the  saddler  with  emphasis. 

"But  I  don't  see  that  you  need  be  so  ...  put  out  about 
it,"  continued  Dickie.  "I  know  this  chap  Smith  is  a  swin- 
dler, and  I  want  to  get  evidence  against  him." 

"Very  good,"  returned  Atcherley,  "but  why  come  to  me  ? 
What  made  you  think  I'd  got  anything  to  do  with  'im?" 

"An  inference  I  drew  from  certain  evidence,  that's  all," 
Dickie  said.  He  realised  that  he  was  being  severely  handi- 
capped by  Mr.  Bell's  restriction. 


156  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

The  saddler  pinched  his  underlip  and  looked  more  sus- 
picious than  ever. 

"Sorry  I  can't  'elp  you,"  he  said.  .  . 

Mr.  Powell,  the  farmer  of  Yaxwell,  was  sympathetic 
enough  within  certain  limits,  but  he  was  hardly  sober  when 
Dickie  saw  him,  and  the  five-mile  ride  out  on  the  further 
side  of  Medborough  was  scarcely  justified  by  the  result  ob- 
tained. 

The  farmer  admitted  his  liability,  and  agreed  verbally 
with  every  suggestion  made  to  him;  but  the  fiabbiness  of 
his  answers  and  his  general  attitude  gave  little  promise  of 
enthusiastic  support.  His  "Well,  sir,  you'd  know  best  about 
that,"  gave  Dickie  some  vague  power  of  attorney,  but  small 
hope  of  active  support. 

Dickie  moodily  reflected  that  even  if  he  could  get  a  team 
together,  the  members  of  it  would  be  a  very  difficult  lot  to 
handle. 

He  saw  Mrs.  Barrett's  son-in-law,  George  Cummin,  be- 
fore tackling  the  photographer  in  Cross  Street.  The  chem- 
ist, who  was  not  a  customer  of  the  City  &  County's,  came 
into  the  Bank  the  day  after  Dickie's  ride  to  Yaxwell,  and 
invited  him  to  come  over  to  the  shop  in  Priestgate  at  five 
o'clock. 

Mr.  Cummin  assumed  an  elaborately  mysterious  manner 
when  proffering  the  invitation,  but  in  his  own  parlour  over 
the  shop,  he  wore  rather  the  air  of  an  examining  counsel. 

"Now,  Mr.  Lynneker,"  he  said  with  a  serious  frown,  "in 
the  first  place  I'd  like  to  know  how  you  found  out  as  my 
mother-in-law  was  in  debt  to  this  Loan  Company?" 

"Does  that  matter  ?"  replied  Dickie. 

Mr.  Cummin  pushed  that  aside  as  irrelevant.  "If  she  was 
a  depositor  at  your  Bank,  you  might  have  got  at  it  through 
reading  her  cheques  or  what  not,"  he  continued,  and  was 
plainly  ready  to  discuss  the  whole  evidence  at  great  length. 

Dickie  lost  patience  with  the  necessity  to  combat  this 
critical  curiosity. 

"Oh !  Mrs.  Barrett  put  her  name  on  a  bank  note  that  had 
been  issued  to  Smith,"  he  said,  "and  as  it  came  back  to  us 


GEORGE  SMITH  157 

through  another  customer  within  two  days,  I  assumed  that 
your  mother-in-law  was  probably  the  recipient  of  the  loan." 

"Ah !  smart !"  commented  the  chemist.  "But  now,  when 
was  that  note  issued?  Recently?" 

"No;  eighteen  months  ago,"  returned  Dickie  irritably. 
"Some  one  had  made  an  entry  in  the  register  to  the  effect 
that  the  note  was  endorsed  A.  Barrett,  Cowgate.  What  has 
all  this  got  to  do  with  what  we  want  to  discuss?" 

"Well,  I'm  one  o'  those  that  like  to  have  what  I  may  call 
the  elements  of  a  case  quite  clear  from  the  start,  Mr.  Lyn- 
neker,"  Mr.  Cummin  explained,  and  after  an  hour's  con- 
versation the  elements  were  still  engaging  his  curiosity. 

Dickie  came  near  despair  during  that  interview.  There 
could  be  no  doubt  that  the  chemist  was  in  serious  financial 
difficulty,  but  he  was  far  more  intent  upon  demonstrating 
his  own  acumen,  which  consisted,  as  far  as  Dickie  could 
judge,  in  sifting  useless  evidence  and  throwing  doubt  on 
every  suggestion — than  upon  taking  any  practical  measures 
for  averting  his  threatened  bankruptcy. 

When  he  was  out  in  Priestgate  again,  Dickie  shook  his 
head  with  a  kind  of  savage  bewilderment.  These  men, 
Powell  and  Cummin,  had  been  so  foolishly  anxious  to  create 
some  impression  upon  himself,  one  by  his  feeble  agreements, 
the  other  by  the  attempt  to  demonstrate  his  cleverness. 
"What  did  that  matter,  one  way  or  the  other?7  Dickie 
wondered.  "Why  couldn't  they  do  something  to  help  them- 
selves? Now,  that  fellow,  Atcherley,  the  saddler,  had 
been  infernally  rude,  but  he  was  the  kind  of  man  that  might 
have  been  useful." 

"I  wish  I  could  get  at  Atcherley,"  Dickie  reflected  as  he 
made  his  way  moodily  to  the  photographer's  in  Cross 
Street. 

On  the  threshold  of  the  outer  door  he  met  Mr.  George 
Smith. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Lynneker,"  he  said  with  a  gracious 
smile.  "Were  you  coming  to  see  me?" 

"Going  to  have  my  photograph  taken,"  growled  Dickie. 


158  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

He  lied  so  rarely  that  he  took  it  for  granted  Mr.  Smith 
would  believe  him. 


The  "studio"  was  closed,  but  the  proprietor,  Wilfred 
Geach,  appeared  at  the  door  of  another  room  on  the  same 
landing  in  answer  to  Dickie's  third  knock. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  wearily.    "Midgets?" 

"Are  you  Mr.  Geach  ?"  replied  Dickie. 

"I  suppose  so,"  admitted  the  photographer,  and  then,  as 
his  visitor  came  into  the  light  of  the  gas  burner  that  flared 
within  the  room,  he  added :  "Seen  you  in  the  Bank,  haven't 
I?" 

"Yes ;  I  want  to  see  you  about  the  Loan  Company,  down- 
stairs," Dickie  said. 

"Come  for  a  reference  for  their  respectability?"  asked 
Geach.  "I  thought  you'd  been  to  them  already." 

"How  did  you  know  that?"  asked  Dickie. 

"Oh,  intervals  of  business,"  returned  Geach  carelessly. 

He  was  a  young,  fair  man  with  a  light  moustache  and  a 
loose  wave  of  hair  that  sloped  across  his  forehead.  He 
leaned  against  the  door  post  as  he  talked  and  smoked  a 
cigarette.  "Medborough  don't  keep  me  so  infernally  busy 
that  I've  no  time  to  look  out  of  the  window,"  he  said. 

"D'you  mean  that  you  know  most  of  Smith's  victims?" 
asked  Dickie  eagerly. 

"Victims,  eh?"  returned  Geach.  "Victims  is  good.  Now 
I  guessed  the  old  lady  having  had  some  herself  had  tried 
to  save  you.  Bad  shot,  what?  If  you'd  been  on  the  bor- 
rowing game,  you  wouldn't  have  been  talking  about  victims 
for  a  few  months  yet." 

"Look  here,"  said  Dickie ;  "can  I  talk  this  over  with  you  ? 
I  want  to  drive  this  chap  Smith  out  of  the  town,  and  I 
believe  you're  the  very  man  I've  been  looking  for  to  help 
me." 

"Come  in,"  Geach  said.     "There's  some  tea  that  ought 


GEORGE  SMITH  159 

to  be  keeping  fairly  warm  yet.  This  is  my  bed-sitting  room ; 
had  to  use  the  other  room  for  a  dark  room." 

The  photographer's  knowledge  of  Smith's  clients  proved 
to  be  extensive. 

"When  I  first  came  to  this  silly  place,  four  years  ago," 
he  explained,  "I  rigged  up  a  mirror  over  one  of  the  studio 
windows,  trying  a  new  dodge  with  lighting.  It  didn't  work, 
of  course;  none  of  my  dodges  do,  but  I  found  it  con- 
venient for  looking  down  into  the  street  without  opening 
the  window.  I'm  used  to  seeing  people  upside  down  on  the 
focussing  screen.  First  of  all,  I  used  to  watch  for  cus- 
tomers, and  then  I  got  more  interested  in  Smith's  clientele 
— more  of  'em,  for  one  thing.  And  after  I'd  got  to  know 
some  of  the  people  in  the  town  by  sight,  I  was  fairly  fas- 
cinated. I've  stood  on  the  stairs,  sometimes,  and  heard  'em 
talking.  It's  more  amusing  than  waiting  for  customers,  I 
assure  you." 

"Well,  go  on,"  Dickie  prompted  him. 

"I  went  to  Smith  myself  a  little  over  a  year  ago,"  Geach 
announced,  and  Dickie  thought  it  well  to  pretend  surprise. 

"After  all  you  know  about  him?"  he  said. 

"Well,  my  case  was  rather  different,  you  see,"  returned 
Geach  airily.  "I  never  meant  to  pay  him  back." 

"Splendid !"  commented  Dickie. 

"Think  so?  You  would,  anyhow,  if  you  knew  all  I  do 
about  that  snake,  Smith.  He's  a  caution." 

"I  know,"  agreed  Dickie.  "How  are  you  going  to  get 
out  of  paying  him?" 

"Sit  tight  and  smile,"  said  Geach.  "There's  nothing  to 
come.  I'm  broke  in  any  case.  I  should  have  gone  before 
this  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  fifty  quid,  less  interest  and 
cost  of  agreement,  I  took  off  Smith.  Fair  job  I  had  to 
get  it,  too.  I  spent  nearly  a  week  composing  a  new  set  of 
account  books  to  show  him.  If  he  had  as  much  time  to 
spare  looking  out  of  the  window  as  I  have,  he'd  have  known 
they  were  written  especially  for  him.  But  he  keeps  his 
ugly  face  in  the  back  room  the  best  part  of  the  time.  It's 
under  my  dark  room,  and  sometimes,  when  there's  a  real 


160  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

row  on,  I  can  hear  'em  at  it.  'It's  a  shameful  imposture, 
Mr.  Smith/  they  say,  and  then  he  oily  gurgles  at  'em,  and 
presently  they  come  out  trying  to  look  as  if  they'd  only 
just  been  up  here  for  a  dozen  midgets." 

Dickie's  ethical  sense  was  not  outraged  by  Geach's  frank 
admission  of  villainy,  but  he  remembered  Mr.  Smith's  de- 
fence, his  statement  that  he  was  a  butt  for  every  swindler. 
This  was,  no  doubt,  a  fair  instance  of  the  fraud  against 
which  he  insured  by  putting  an  extra  premium  on  to  the 
account  of  other  borrowers. 

"You're  a  criminal,  of  course,"  Dickie  remarked  thought- 
fully. 

"Those  account  books,  you  mean  ?"  Geach  returned.  "Ob- 
taining money  under  false  pretences  ?  Yes ;  I  suppose  I'm  a 
criminal,  right  enough.  I  hadn't  looked  at  it  that  way  be- 
fore; but  it  won't  keep  me  awake.  Nothing  has — yet." 

"And  Smith  takes  it  out  of  the  others." 

"Does  he?    Yes,  of  course,  he  would." 

The  two  young  men  looked  at  one  another  with  a  friendly 
interest.  They  had  one  characteristic  in  common;  neither 
of  them  was  concerned  as  to  the  personal  effect  he  was  mak- 
ing on  the  other. 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  asked  Dickie. 

"Enlist,"  Geach  said.  "I'll  make  a  damned  bad  barrack 
soldier,  but  I  don't  see  what  else  there  is  going." 

"I  want  to  smash  this  fellow  Smith,"  Dickie  said;  "and 
I  want  you  to  help  me.  After  that  you  can  enlist  as  much 
as  you  like." 

"And  what  am  I  going  to  live  on,  while  you  are  indulging 
your  private  spite  against  poor  Smith?" 

"Midgets,  I  suppose,"  Dickie  said  with  a  laugh. 

Geach  swore  without  reticence. 

Dickie  winced.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  heard  that 
mingling  of  the  profane  and  the  obscene.  His  brothers' 
strongest  expression  was  "D.  the  thing;"  and  the  worst 
oath  he  had  heard  used  at  school  or  at  the  Bank  was  rela- 
tively Biblical,  drawing  only  upon  such  classical  words  as 
Damn,  Hell  and  Devil;  very  rarely  with  any  invocation  of 


GEORGE  SMITH  161 

the  Deity.  Geach's  condemnation  of  the  midgets  to  unutter- 
able defilement  offended  Dickie's  ear.  The  meaning  of 
one  prominent  word  was  unknown  to  him,  but  the  sound 
of  it  was  revolting. 

The  young  photographer  stuck  out  his  underlip. 
"Shocked?"  he  asked. 

"I  hate  that  sort  of  muck,"  Dickie  said. 

"Brought  up  pious,  I  suppose?" 

"Clean,  anyhow,"  replied  Dickie. 

Geach  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  lit  another  cigarette. 
"If  you  ivill  seek  the  society  of  criminals  .  .  ."  he  re- 
marked. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  Dickie  asked.  "Why 
have  you  made  such  a  mess  of  things,  I  mean?" 

Geach  looked  at  him  shrewdly. 

"Built  that  way,"  he  said.  "I'm  a  born  slacker.  Never 
did  any  good  at  school.  Rotten  school  for  one  thing — I 
was  a  day  boy  at  Oakstone." 

"Good  Lord !"  interrupted  Dickie.    "I  was  at  Oakstone." 

"What's  your  name?"  asked  Geach. 

"Lynneker." 

"I  was  before  your  time,"  commented  Geach.  "I  can  give 
you  ten  years ;  but  I  remember  a  mealy  sort  of  ass  in  the 
third  form,  called  Lynneker.  I  kicked  him  once,  and  he 
told  me  it  was  infernal  cheek  because  I  was  a  day-boy.  I 
kicked  him  again  for  that,  of  course." 

"That  must  have  been  my  elder  brother,"  Dickie  ex- 
plained. "He's  a  curate  at  St.  Peter's  now." 

Geach  nodded  carelessly.  "I  don't  see  much  of  the 
clergy,"  he  remarked.  "They  go  in  more  for  the  cabinet 
size." 

"He  said  something  about  being  photographed  the  other 
day,"  Dickie  suggested  helpfully.  "Shall  I  send  him 
along?" 

"Don't  bother,"  returned  Geach.  "I  should  want  to 
kick  him  again.  Curates  always  make  me  feel  like  that.  If 
I'd  known  your  brother  was  going  to  be  a  curate,  I'd  have 
done  the  job  more  thoroughly  when  I  was  at  Oakstone." 


162  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

Dickie  pursed  his  lips.  He  was  strongly  interested  by 
the  man,  and  at  the  same  time  definitely  repelled.  He  had 
an  inclination,  now,  to  treat  him  as  Edward  had  been  treated 
at  Oakstone. 

"You  want  kicking,  too,  you  know,"  he  said. 

"That's  only  your  point  of  view,"  replied  Geach. 

"Don't  you  want  to  kick  yourself,  sometimes?" 

"Dunno  that  I  do." 

"Don't  you  want  to  make  money?" 

Geach  yawned.  "I  thought  you  came  to  talk  about  our 
dear  old  pal  Smith,"  he  said.  "If  you  came  to  enquire  into 
my  morals,  you  can  go  as  soon  as  you  like." 

"Well,  will  you  help  me  about  Smith  ?"  asked  Dickie. 

"It  might  be  rather  a  joke,"  Geach  thought. 

And  presently  Dickie  had  a  fresh  set  of  names  of  bor- 
rowers from  the  Medborough  Loan  Company,  some  of  them 
marked  as  those  of  individuals  who  were  probably  near 
desperation. 

"When  they  don't  trouble  to  do  the  casual  act  when  they 
come  out,"  Geach  said,  "you  may  bet  your  shirt  they've  got 
it  in  the  neck." 

VI 

It  was  after  seven  o'clock  when  Dickie  came  away,  and 
he  had  to  go  round  to  the  rear  premises  of  the  Bank  to 
fetch  his  bicycle.  As  he  was  wheeling  it  out  into  Angel 
Lane  he  met  his  brother  Edward. 

"Hullo !  you're  late  to-night,"  Edward  said. 

"I  had  some  business  to  do  in  the  town,"  Dickie  explained, 
and  went  on  at  once.  "I  say,  weren't  you  saying  something 
about  being  photographed  the  other  day?  I  wish  you'd 
go  to  that  fellow  Geach  in  Cross  Street." 

"Who  is  Geach  ?"  asked  Edward  fastidiously. 

"He's  an  old  Oakstone  boy,  rather  senior  to  you.  Don't 
you  remember  him  at  all?" 

"Can't  say  I  do,"  Edward  said  without  reflection.  There 
was  a  note  of  remonstrance  in  his  voice,  as  if  he  wished 
this  impossible  young  brother  of  his  to  understand  that  one 


GEORGE  SMITH  163 

did  not  remember  Oakstone  boys  who  became  professional 
photographers. 

Dickie  overlooked  the  implication.  "Fair  chap  with  rather 
dark  blue  eyes  and  a  swipe  of  hair  across  his  forehead/' 
he  suggested. 

"There  was  an  awful  bounder  of  a  day-boy,  the  son  of 
the  chemist.  .  .  ." 

"That's  the  man,"  exclaimed  Dickie.  "He's  got  a  studio 
in  Cross  Street,  now,  and  he's  infernally  hard  up.  Couldn't 
you  go  there?" 

"I  don't  think  I  could,  now,"  Edward  said  deliberately. 
"I  rather  thought  of  going  to  Haywards  in  the  Market 
Place.  Helen  went  there.  They're  rather  good." 

"You  haven't  arranged  with  them  yet?" 

Edward  frowned.  "I  really  can't  see  that  it  would  be  any 
good  my  going  to  this  chap,  Geach's,"  he  said.  "To  tell 
you  the  truth,  I'm  not  the  least  anxious  to  meet  him  again." 

"You  wouldn't  care  to  do  him  a  good  turn  ?" 

"Not  particularly,"  Edward  said,  and  avoided  further 
pressure  by  adding,  "I'm  frightfully  late,  too.  I  had  to 
do  some  people  up  at  the  back  of  the  town ;  ghastly  neigh- 
bourhood. And  I  want  to  get  home,  now, — "  he  paused 
and  concluded  with  great  feeling,  "to  wash." 

Dickie  made  no  reply,  so  by  way  of  emphasising  what 
he  intended  to  be  a  moral  lesson  for  his  brother,  and  of 
vindicating  his  own  attitude,  Edward  went  on,  "I  loathe 
the  feeling  of  not  being  clean,  and  however  careful  you  are, 
when  you  have  been  in  the  houses  of  people  of  that  sort,  you 
get  a  sense  of  being  dirty.  I  always  must  have  a  hot  bath 
before  I  can  eat  after  district  visiting." 

"How  splendid!"  commented  Dick,  with  great  solemnity, 
and  swinging  his  leg  over  his  bicycle,  he  rode  away  before 
the  other  could  reply. 

"I  wonder  what  it  is  exactly  that's  wrong  with  Dickie?" 
Edward  reflected  later,  when  his  longing  to  overtake  and 
kick  his  young  brother  had  passed  its  first  violence. 


164  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

And  Dickie,  pedalling  furiously  homewards,  demonstrated 
his  kinship  by  giving  expression  to  precisely  the  same  won- 
der with  regard  to  Edward. 

Edward  found  a  reasonable  solution  in  the  explanation 
that  Dickie  was  lacking  in  a  feeling  for  "decency,"  probably 
due  to  a  vulgar  strain  he  had  inherited  through  their  mother. 
She,  too,  had  rather  queer  ideas  about  "common"  people 
and  was  apt  to  be  abominably  careless  about  the  details 
of  her  appearance.  Edward  frowned  irritably.  It  annoyed 
him  that  he  should  be  placed  in  the  unfortunate  position 
of  having  to  criticise  his  own  mother, — but  he  had  positively 
been  ashamed  the  last  time  she  had  come  to  the  Vicarage; 
she  had  been  so  unforgivably  untidy.  He  tried  hard  not  to 
remember  that  Helen,  also,  was  a  little  careless  about  her 
clothes.  He  put  that  aside  with  the  confident  statement 
that  it  was  "bound  to  be  all  right"  when  they  were  mar- 
ried. .  .  . 

Dickie  floundering  among  the  attempts  to  analyse  the 
same  problem,  was  confounded  by  the  fact  that  he  himself 
was  the  exception  within  his  own  experience  of  his  class. 
His  father  and  Latimer,  and  without  question  the  majority 
of  their  friends,  all  wanted  to  wash  their  hands  after  contact 
with  such  individuals  as  young  Geach.  The  first  and  second 
fingers  of  the  photographer's  right  hand  were  brown  with 
the  stain  of  cigarette  smoke,  his  room  was  indescribably 
untidy  and  dirty;  the  man's  whole  appearance  and  sur- 
roundings would  have  revolted  Edward,  not  less  than  the 
"criminality"  and  uncleanliness  of  his  mind.  But  Dickie, 
while  he  criticised  Geach,  and  was  to  a  certain  extent  re- 
pelled by  him,  had  no  sense  of  contamination.  On  the  con- 
trary, his  interest  in  the  photographer  was  such  that  he 
fully  intended  to  visit  him  again. 

"I  don't  know,"  Dickie  said  to  himself.  "I  suppose  it 
is  that  they're  not  really  interested  in  that  kind  of  people." 

He  was  unable,  as  yet,  to  carry  his  deductions  beyond 
that  preliminary  statement. 


GEORGE  SMITH  165 


VII 

Dickie's  task  of  assembling  any  determined  body  of  debt- 
ors to  the  Medborough  Loan  Company,  was  little  lightened 
by  the  new  list  of  names  he  had  obtained  from  Wilfred 
Geach. 

On  broad  lines  the  borrowers  could  be  divided  into  two 
categories — the  poor  spirited  who  had  undoubtedly  been 
cheated  but  were  afraid  to  take  any  action ;  and  those  who 
had  comparatively  little  ground  for  complaint.  Mr.  Smith 
was  evidently  a  fine  judge  of  character  in  the  rough,  and 
made  his  contracts  according  to  the  innate  tendencies  of  his 
clients  rather  than  according  to  the  nature  of  their  security. 

Furthermore,  Mr.  Smith  was  aware  of  the  conspiracy 
against  him,  and  was  taking  measures  to  protect  himself. 

Dickie  found  that  carefully  worded  letters  had  been  writ- 
ten to  Mrs.  Barrett,  Powell  and  Cummin,  in  which  it  was 
made  quite  clear  that  repayment  of  the  original  sum  lent, 
together  with  interest  up  to  date,  would  be  accepted  at  any 
time  in  full  settlement. 

Dickie  was  beginning  to  have  doubts  whether  he  would 
be  able  to  make  any  sort  of  case,  when  he  received  unex- 
pected help  from  the  saddler  in  Narrow  Street. 

Mr.  Atcherley  was  standing  on  the  pavement  in  front 
of  the  Bank  one  afternoon  in  early  November,  and  nodded 
familiarly  to  Dickie  as  he  came  out. 

"Fine  afternoon  for  a  Thursday,"  Mr.  Atcherley  re- 
marked, pointing  the  fact  that  it  was  early-closing  day. 

Dickie  nodded  carelessly,  wheeled  his  bicycle  across  the 
pavement  and  was  in  the  act  of  mounting  when  the  saddler 
came  over  to  him  and  said : 

'*  'Ere,  one  minute,  Mr.  Lynneker.  I'd  like  to  'ave  a  talk 
with  you.  What  d'you  say  to  popping  round  to  the  Angel 
for  'alf  an  hour?" 

"Is  it  about  the  Loan  Company?"  Dickie  asked. 

"Sh!"  hissed  Atcherley,  and  contorted  one  side  of  his 
face  into  an  expression  intended  to  convey  warning.  He 


166  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

put  his  hand  up  to  his  mouth  as  he  continued  in  a  whisper, 
"I  know  a  little  room  at  the  Angel  where  we  shan't  be  dis- 
turbed." 

"All  right,"  Dickie  agreed. 

They  entered  the  Angel  Hotel  by  way  of  the  tap  room, 
and  as  they  passed  through  it,  Atcherley  nodded  to  the 
barmaid  and  made  a  movement  of  his  head  in  the  direction 
of  the  first  floor.  "Send  'em  up,"  .he  remarked,  and  then 
to  Dickie,  "What'll  you  take?" 

"I  won't  drink,  thanks,"  Dickie  said. 

Atcherley  removed  his  grey  bowler  hat  and  scratched  his 
head.  "Just  one,"  he  suggested. 

Dickie  frowned  impatiently. 

"Oh!  well,  if  you  won't  .  .  ."  Atcherley  said,  and  con- 
tinued as  an  afterthought,  "No  reason  why  I  shouldn't." 
He  winked  at  the  barmaid  by  way  of  giving  his  order,  and 
relieving  himself  of  the  responsibility  of  bringing  a  tee- 
totaler into  those  premises. 

He  took  Dickie  into  a  small  but  rather  luxuriously  fur- 
nished room  on  the  first  floor. 

"Landlord's  private  parlour,"  he  explained,  nodded  with 
an  air  of  immense  secrecy,  and  again  behind  the  unnecessary 
cover  of  his  hand,  added,  "Where  we  make  our  little  ar- 
rangements, y'know.  Ever  do  anything  in  that  line  ?" 

"What  line?"  asked  Dickie. 

Atcherley  stuck  out  his  neat  little  leather-gaitered  legs, 
and  regarded  them  sadly.  "Nor  you  don't  smoke,  I  sup- 
pose?" he  said. 

"No,  thanks,"  returned  Dickie. 

"Christ!"  murmured  Atcherley  softly.  He  appeared  to 
reflect  on  the  profoundly  saddening  problem  of  his  com- 
panion's limitations  for  a  moment,  and  then  briskly  drew  in 
his  legs,  leaned  forward,  and  touching  Dickie  on  the  chest 
with  a  stubby,  red  forefinger,  said,  "Now,  then,  what  about 
this  'ere  George  Smith  ?" 

"I  thought  you  told  me  .  .  ."  began  Dickie. 

"That  was  before  the  Newmarket  meetin',"  Atcherley 
returned,  and  with  one  gesture  of  his  sandy  hand  cancelled 


GEORGE  SMITH  167 

anything  he  might  have  said  in  that  hopeful  period.  "And 
it  didn't  come  off,  good  though  it  looked,"  he  went  on; 
"which,  as  you'll  understand,  makes  a  very  remarkable  dif- 
ference." He  broke  off  as  a  waiter  came  in  with  a  tray, 
made  a  few  cryptic  remarks  to  him  concluding  with  "Red- 
start for  Liverpool;  twenties,"  drank  the  company's  health 
with  one  of  the  usual  formulae,  and  then  as  soon  as  he 
and  Dickie  were  alone  again,  promptly  returned  to  the  ques- 
tion at  issue  by  saying, 

"I  was  talking  to  young  Geach  a  couple  o'  nights  ago." 

It  appeared  that  young  Geach,  also,  was  admitted  to  the 
landlord's  private  parlour  in  the  evenings,  and  that  he  had 
done  rather  well  for  himself  at  Newbury.  "Borrowed  a 
couple  o'  quid  from  me,  put  it  all  on  at  twenty-five  and  came 
home,"  Atcherley  explained  with  a  half  despairing  lift  of 
his  head.  He  had  to  drink  again  before  he  could  continue, 
"So  'e's  in  funds  just  now,  talked  about  payin'  'is  rent! 
Certainly  'e  was  three  parts  drunk  at  the  time.  'E's  a 
caution!  Well,  'im  and  me  we've  been  layin'  our  'eads 
together." 

They  had,  indeed,  evolved  a  plan.  It  seemed  that  there 
was  a  lawyer  known  to  them,  who  would  be  willing  to  give 
professional  help.  The  idea  was  to  get  up  a  test  case  and 
let  it  be  known  that  on  the  issue  depended  a  score  of  other 
cases  of  the  same  kind.  They  were  to  force  Smith  to  pro- 
duce one  of  those  short-loan  contracts,  and  generally  to  stir 
up  public  feeling  against  him,  even  if,  as  was  quite  probable, 
they  were  unable  to  obtain  a  verdict.  Afterwards  there  was 
to  be  a  federation  of  debtors  to  the  company,  all  of  whom 
were  to  refer  any  applications  made  by  Smith  to  the  common 
lawyer. 

"Make  Smith  prosecute  in  every  [stigmatised]  case,"  was 
the  effect  of  Atcherley's  summary,  stated  with  the  emphasis 
necessary  for  the  occasion. 

Dickie  saw  at  once  that  the  plan  was  likely  to  be  an  effec- 
tive one,  but  the  whole  affair  had  taken  for  him  a  new,  dis- 
tasteful colour.  He  could  no  longer  regard  the  prosecution 
of  Smith  as  the  attack  upon  a  malefactor  undertaken  for 


168  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

purely  ethical  motives  to  protect  such  innocent  weaklings  as 
his  own  mother.  Geach  and  Atcherley  were  going  to  play 
Smith's  own  game ;  and  no  doubt  those  two  were  typical  of 
a  small  minority  of  the  other  debtors.  They  were  all  able 
to  defend  themselves,  and,  now  that  Dickie  had  given  them 
the  idea,  they  would  carry  through  the  conspiracy  to  a  suc- 
cessful issue.  And,  in  effect,  they  were  swindlers  no  less 
than  Smith.  They  had  borrowed  money  for  their  own  pur- 
poses at  a  fairly  high  rate  of  interest,  and  now  they  were 
scheming  to  avoid  repayment  of  the  capital. 

"  'Ow  does  that  go  ?"  asked  Atcherley. 

Dickie  moodily  kicked  the  leg  of  the  table.  "It  sounds 
feasible,"  he  said. 

"  'Ow  far  er  you  dipped,  yourself,  might  I  ask  ?"  enquired 
the  saddler. 

Dickie  looked  up  quickly.  "I  don't  owe  Smith  anything,  if 
that's  what  you  mean,"  he  said. 

"One  of  your  f am'ly,  perhaps  ?" 

"No,"  Dickie  replied  firmly.    "Nor  any  of  my  family." 

"Well,  then,  where  do  you  come  in?"  Atcherley  asked, 
and  his  astonishment  was  such  that  he  paused  with  his  glass 
half  way  to  his  mouth. 

"I'm  not  coming  in — any  further,"  Dickie  said.  "Geach 
has  all  the  particulars.  You  and  he  and  this  lawyer  chap 
can  manage  the  rest  of  the  business  between  you." 

Atcherley  considered  that  for  a  moment,  finished  his 
second  whiskey  with  an  unnecessarily  loud  gulp,  and  then 
remarked  in  his  enriched  manner  that  he  would  rather  like 
to  know  why  he  had  been  permitted  to  waste  his  afternoon. 

"Chiefly  because  I've  been  a  damned  fool,"  Dickie  said, 
getting  to  his  feet.  "You  see,  Mr.  Atcherley,  I  didn't  under- 
stand quite  what  I  was  doing.  I  knew  this  fellow  Smith 
was  a  swindler,  and  I  wanted  to  protect  people  like  Mrs. 
Barrett,  and  Farmer  Powell,  who  were  getting  cheated  right 
and  left  and  couldn't  defend  themselves.  But  I'd  no  inten- 
tion of  trying  to  cheat  Smith,  on  my  own  account,  which  is 
really  what  you  and  Geach  want  to  do." 

"Only  people  like  me  and  Geach  is  to  suffer,  eh?"  com- 


GEORGE  SMITH  169 

mented  Atcherley.  "Your  friend  Powell  of  Yaxwell,  for 
instance,  owes  me  pretty  near  ten  pound  at  the  present 
moment.  Well,  Mr.  Lynneker,  I'd  like  to  know  what  you 
consider  I've  done,  if  you  can  spare  the  time  ?" 

Dickie  shook  his  head.  "You  haven't  done  anything/*  he 
said.  "It's  the  principle  of  the  thing.  But  it's  no  good 
our  discussing  that.  I'm  out  of  this,  altogether.  I'm  not 
going  to  stand  in  your  way.  You  can  go  on  and  prosecute 
Smith, — and  dupes  like  Mrs.  Barrett  and  twenty  others  of 
the  same  kind  will  score,  too,  I  suppose." 

Atcherley  put  down  his  glass  on  the  tray  with  a  crash. 
"Oh !  yes,  me  and  Geach  are  going  on,"  he  said,  "even  with- 
out your  valyble  'elp,  Mr.  Lynneker."  He  looked  up  thought- 
fully and  then  said  with  a  complete  change  of  manner, 
"You  might  tell  'is  reverence  that  them  breechings  I  been 
doin'  for  'im,  is  ready  any  time  'e  cares  to  send  for  'em." 


VIII 

The  ethical  problem  that  had  begun  to  intrigue  Dickie 
was  further  complicated  for  him  by  the  attitude  of  his 
father  and  mother.  He  felt  that  he  must  report  to  them 
the  whole  story  of  what  he  regarded  as  his  failure,  and  ap- 
proached his  confession  with  a  sense  that  he  had  proved 
his  incompetence.  The  three  of  them  adjourned  to  the 
Rector's  study  after  tea.  The  Rector  and  his  wife  came  to 
the  'conference,  with  something  of  childish  eagerness.  If 
they  had  a  subconscious  inclination  to  treat  this  strange  child 
of  theirs  with  fear  and  respect,  they  had  a  perfectly  con- 
scious feeling  of  surprised  curiosity  concerning  the  details 
of  his  amazing  persecution  of  that  "horrible  loan  man," — 
as  Mrs.  Lynneker  always  referred  to  him. 

"I've  made  a  mess  of  it,"  Dickie  began  humbly.  "I  can 
see  now  that  I  rushed  at  the  thing  in  an  idiotic  way  without 
knowing  a  bit  what  I  was  doing.  If  I'd  thought  about  it  a 
bit  more  first,  I  suppose,  I  should  have  seen  what  a  tre- 


170  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

mendously  complicated  affair  it  was.  I — I  want  to  kick 
myself,  badly." 

The  Rector  looked  grave.  He  found  an  ominous  sug- 
gestion in  his  son's  tone,  and  his  mind  leapt  at  once  to  the 
consideration  of  two  terrible  alternatives : — either  he  had 
been  let  in  for  more  money  or  he  was  threatened  with  some 
exposure  of  his  wife's  transactions  with  this  dreadful  loan 
company.  And,  like  Dickie,  Mr.  Lynneker  had  a  sudden 
desire  to  "kick  himself  badly"  for  not  having  foreseen  the 
inevitable  result  of  trusting  so  delicate  and  dangerous  a 
business  to  a  youth  of  nineteen. 

"Well,  well,  Dick,  what  is  it  youVe  done?"  he  asked, 
and  his  charming  boyish  interest  gave  place  to  the  petulance 
of  an  old  man  suffering  the  fret  of  a  life-long  annoyance. 

"I've  chucked  the  whole  affair,"  Dickie  said,  and  looked 
up  to  receive  well-merited  reproach. 

"And  have  you  become  implicated  in  any  way  ?"  his  father 
asked,  frowning. 

Mrs.  Lynneker  looked  on  with  an  expression  of  terrified 
anticipation. 

"Only  to  the  extent  that  I  began  it,"  Dickie  said. 

"Yes,  yes,  but  what  does  that  imply?" 

"Implies  that  I've  made  a  mess  of  it." 

Mr.  Lynneker  became  explicit.  "Is  there  any  fear  that 
our  name  may  appear?"  he  asked,  "or  that  I  may  be  let  in 
for  any  more  money?" 

"Oh !  no,"  Dickie  said  with  a  shade  of  contempt,  "not  the 
least  chance  of  either  of  those  things.  I'm  right  out  of  it." 

"But  I  don't  see  .  .  ."  his  mother  began. 

"Why  you  are  so  blue  about  it,  my  dear  boy,"  her  hus- 
band added.  They  were  both  so  relieved  by  Dickie's  state- 
ment that  they  were  ready  to  laugh  at  his  immense  serious- 
ness. 

"Well,  I've  been  such  an  idiotic  ass,"  explained  Dickie, 
and  went  on  to  give  them  a  fairly  articulate  account  of  his 
earlier  negotiations  and  his  vision  of  the  doubtful  ethic 
which  had  been  revealed  that  afternoon. 

The  Rector  smiled,  fondly,  paternally.    "Really,  I  had  no 


GEORGE  SMITH  171 

idea  Atcherley  was  at  all  that  kind  of  man,"  was  his  first 
comment.  "I  have  never  found  anything  to  complain  of 
in  his  manner." 

"They're  all  quite  different  when  you  get  at  them  out  of 
their  shops,"  was  Dickie's  summary  of  his  two  years'  experi- 
ence at  the  Bank. 

His  father  nodded  sadly,  as  if  he  greatly  deplored  the 
possible  truth  of  this  depressing  generalisation  concerning 
the  humanity  of  those  tradespeople  whose  counter  aspects 
were  so  particularly  encouraging.  It  was  distinctly  un- 
pleasant to  contemplate  the  possibility  that  the  polite  trades- 
man might  be  a  radical  in  private  life.  The  Rector  was  in- 
clined to  blame  the  example  set  by  "that  blackguard,  Glad- 
stone," whose  influence  remained  to  work  evil,  even  though 
he  had  retired  from  active  politics. 

"But  do  you  think  they  will  prosecute  that  horrid  loan 
man  ?"  Mrs.  Lynneker  asked. 

"Oh!  they'll  drive  him  out  of  the  town,  for  certain," 
was  Dickie's  confident  opinion. 

"It  will  all  be  your  doing,  really,"  his  mother  encouraged 
him ;  and  his  father,  assenting  to  that  implied  congratulation, 
murmured,  "Capital,  I  call  it,  eh?" 

Dickie  looked  uncomfortable.  "It  hasn't  turned  out  a  bit 
the  way  I  meant  it  to,"  he  said. 

His  father  complacently  misunderstood  the  significance  of 
that  statement. 

"Just  as  well,  just  as  well,"  he  said.  "To  tell  you  the 
truth,  I'm  most  uncommonly  glad  that  you  shouldn't  ap- 
pear in  the  case  in  any  way.  It  wouldn't  have  done  for 
many  reasons.  You've  achieved  your  end,  and  we  shall 
give  you  full  credit  for  it,  if  no  one  else  will." 

But  Mrs.  Lynneker,  staring  at  her  son's  face,  had  some 
wavering,  uncertain  idea  of  what  was  in  his  mind. 

"Don't  you  think  he  ought  to  be  punished,  dear?"  she 
asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  Dickie  said.    "Anyway,  if  he  ought,  so 


172  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

ought  Atcherley  and  Geach.  I  don't  see  that  there's  much 
to  choose  between  the  three  of  'em." 

"But  think  of  all  the  other  people,  like  that  poor  old 
Mrs.  Barrett  in  Cowgate,"  urged  Mrs.  Lynneker. 

"Yes,  there  is  that  in  it,"  agreed  Dickie,  contemplating 
for  the  first  time  the  fallacious  proposition  of  "the  greatest 
good  to  the  greatest  number."  "I  know  there  is  that  in 
it.  Only  .  .  ." 

His  father  and  mother  could  fall  back  so  comfortably 
on  their  belief  in  "the  inscrutable  ways  of  Providence."  The 
soreness  of  their  respective  hurts  was  soothed  by  the  balm 
of  the  knowledge  that  God  had — as  might  well  have  been  ex- 
pected in  this  case — declared  himself  on  their  side.  George 
Smith  had  unwarrantably  injured  them,  they  could  appreci- 
ate his  wickedness,  and  with  the  demure  reservation  of  a 
willingness — now — to  forgive  him,  they  were  humbly  grate- 
ful for  the  boon  of  Divine  vengeance.  Atcherley's  and 
Geach's  wickedness  was  outside  their  scope.  Doubtless 
there  had  been  some  excuse  for  it — they  had  been  exas- 
perated by  this  horrible  fellow  Smith — and  there  was 
reasonable  hope  that  in  future  they  would  lead  respectable, 
if  not  godly,  lives. 

Dickie,  floundering  through  a  maze  in  which  no  path 
could  reach  the  goal  except  by  the  most  devious  of  cir- 
cumlocutions, could  do  nothing  but  repeat  the  certainty 
he  had  of  the  contingent  he  indicated  by  his  "Only  .  .  .," 
the  contingent  he  could  not  define.  He  knew  that  he  had 
blundered,  but  why  or  how  he  could  not  understand. 

And  for  a  time  he  put  that  problem  aside,  as  he  had  put 
aside  certain  intricacies  of  higher  mathematics,  with  a  firm 
resolve  to  return  to  it  when  his  mind  was  cleared  by  a 
period  of  distraction.  His  reading  had  been  seriously  in- 
terrupted during  the  last  few  weeks,  and  he  returned  to  it 
with  new  vigour.  He  added  a  new  subject  to  his  steadily 
widening  course  of  study  by  including  Herbert  Spencer's 
"Principles  of  Ethics." 


GEORGE  SMITH  173 


IX 

Mr.  Smith  did  not  wait  for  the  test  case  to  come  into 
court.  One  morning  in  the  following  March,  his  office 
in  Cross  Street  was  found  closed  by  a  tardy  borrower  who 
had  come  to  make  repayment  on  the  very  easy  terms  that 
the  Loan  Company  had  recently  been  offering.  The  visitor 
was  not  on  the  conspirators'  list — lately  something  depleted 
by  fearful  individuals  who  had  accepted  Mr.  Smith's  tempt- 
ing offers  of  settlement — but  the  news  soon  ran  through  the 
town. 

Smith  had  gone,  but  no  one  was  interested  in  following 
him.  He  had  left  many  debtors  in  Medborough,  but  not  a 
single  creditor.  .  .  . 

Five  years  later  Dickie  saw  him  in  a  first-class  carriage 
and  he  was  wearing  an  overcoat  lined  with  undeniable 
sable.  He  had  no  air  of  having  been  crushed  by  his  ex- 
pulsion from  Medborough. 


X 

THE    GOD    OUT    OF    MAYFAIR 


T?  DWARD  was  married  after  a  two  years'  engagement ; 
-L^  and  the  affair  did  something  to  invade  the  peace  of 
Halton  by  bringing  four  visiting  relatives  to  the  Rectory. 

The  family  was  fairly  well  represented.  Canon  Lynne- 
ker,  then  in  his  79th  year,  was  too  old  to  leave  home,  but 
the  two  Culver  cousins,  Grace  and  Diana,  came — "the 
girls,"  as  the  Rector  always  called  them,  although  Grace 
was  nearly  forty  and  Diana  not  more  than  four  or  five 
years  younger.  Aunt  Mary,  the  widow  of  "poor  Dick," 
also  stayed  in  the  house;  and  Martyn, — the  son  of  the 
stipendiary,  and  now  the  head  of  the  family, — was  accom- 
modated with  a  bed  in  the  Rector's  dressing-room. 

Of  these  four  relations,  Martyn  was  the  only  one  who 
held  any  particular  interest  for  Dickie.  He  knew  the 
Culver  girls  better  than  any  of  his  cousins,  and  had  stayed 
at  Culver  for  a  week  of  his  last  summer's  holiday.  He 
liked  Aunt  Mary,  although  she  was  apt  to  be  an  embarrass- 
ment. Her  strong  evangelical  tendencies  would  not  permit 
her  to  neglect  enquiry  into  the  state  of  her  nephew's  be- 
liefs; and  just  at  that  time  Dickie  felt  that  he  could  not 
honestly  face  such  an  enquiry.  But  Martyn  was  almost 
a  stranger  to  the  Halton  family. 

He  was  apparently  an  exception  from  his  generation. 
He  had  inherited  a  small  income  from  his  father,  had  been 
called  to  the  Bar  and  had  then  married  the  only  daughter 
of  the  late  Sir  Gregory  Stroud.  Miss  Stroud  was  some  ten 
years  older  than  Martyn,  but  she  was  possessed  of  a  con- 

174 


THE  GOD  OUT  OP  MAYFAIR  175 

siderable  private  fortune.  Martyn's  profession  could  not 
have  been  highly  remunerative — he  appeared  as  a  junior 
now  and  again, — but  he  counted  as  a  success.  He  and  his 
wife  were  frequently  mentioned  in  the  Morning  Post.  They 
were  invited  to  important  houses,  and  entertained  modestly 
at  their  own  little  place  in  Mayfair.  And,  incidentally, 
Martyn  kept  the  Lynneker  pedigree  and  knew  more  about 
the  family  than  any  other  member  of  it.  He  was,  indeed, 
writing  a  monograph  on  the  Lynnekers,  and  had  recently 
been  staying  with  the  Carronbridges  in  Scotland  in  order 
to  look  up  material  in  their  records. 

He  gave  himself  no  airs  while  he  was  staying  at  Halton ; 
his  four  girl  cousins,  Mrs.  Lynneker  and  Aunt  Mary  were 
unanimous  in  their  verdict  upon  him,  expressed  in  the 
single  adjective  "charming";  but  in  some  way  he  made 
them  all  appear  a  little  provincial  by  contrast.  He  was  so 
well  kept.  He  achieved  a  neat  correctitude  in  every  detail 
of  his  dress  and  person  without  producing  any  effect  of 
spruceness.  He  certainly  used  no  scent  that  could  be 
characterised,  but  a  clean  smell,  like  a  faint  country  air, 
diffused  from  him,  as  if  he  had  just  been  using  some  par- 
ticularly nice  soap.  And  without  the  least  hint  of  patronage 
or  snobbery,  he  seemed  to  include  all  these  provincial  rela- 
tions of  his  in  the  high  circle  of  his  town  acquaintance.  He 
spoke  so  naturally  of  his  relations  with  the  titular  aris- 
tocracy or  the  great  figures  of  political  life,  that  his  hearers 
received  the  impression  that  these  important  people  were 
the  natural  compeers  of  the  Lynnekers.  And  yet  the 
contrast  between  Martyn  and  say  Edward  or  Latimer  could 
not  be  forgotten. 

It  was  impossible  for  the  Rector  to  forget  that  his 
nephew  had  influence,  that  he  might,  for  example,  "do 
something  for  one  of  the  boys."  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lynneker 
had  visions  of  preferment  for  Edward;  or,  possibly,  for 
Latimer,  now  qualifying  for  his  deacon's  orders.  They 
had  no  thought  for  Dickie  in  this  connexion.  No  one  con- 
sidered the  necessity  for  influence  in  their  regard  of  Dickie. 


176  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

Nevertheless  it  was  Dickie  who  was  singled  out  by  the 
admirable  Martyn. 


ii 

At  the  enlarged  and  greatly  reinforced  supper  table  on 
the  evening  of  Martyn's  arrival,  he  soon  picked  out  his 
younger  cousin  for  particular  notice. 

"And  Dick?"  he  asked.  "What  is  cousin  Dick  doing, 
now  ?"  He  had  a  rich,  well-modulated  voice,  and  his  enun- 
ciation produced  an  effect  of  being  a  little  cleaner  and 
sharper  than  that  of  his  country  relations. 

"I'm  in  the  City  &  County  Bank  at  Medborough,"  Dickie 
said,  and  looked  at  his  cousin  with  frank  curiosity. 

Martyn  nodded,  as  if  he  would  weigh  before  finally  ap- 
proving that  occupation.  "Good  Bank,"  he  remarked.  "Do 
you  like  the  work?" 

"I  shall  stay  there  for  a  couple  of  years  more,"  Dickie 
said.  "I've  been  there  three  already." 

"And  then?"  Martyn  appeared  to  be  giving  his  whole 
attention.  He  could  not  have  displayed  a  greater  interest 
if  he  had  been  listening  to  some  important  statement  made 
to  him  privately  by  a  Cabinet  Minister. 

"I  haven't  decided  yet,"  Dickie  replied.  "There  are  a 
lot  of  muddles  I  want  to  clear  up  first." 

Martyn  smiled,  an  encouraging,  ingratiating  smile.  "What 
kind  of  muddles,  Dick?"  he  answered. 

"Oh !  political  and  social  and  ethical,  chiefly,"  Dickie  ex- 
plained, and  transiently  wondered  why  he  had  hesitated  to 
add  religious.  "I  want  to  understand  that  sort  of  thing  a 
bit  better,  you  know,"  he  went  on.  "I  didn't  get  the  hang 
of  them  at  school." 

The  others  had  listened  to  this  duologue  with  a  slight 
sense  of  strain.  They  were  a  little  afraid  that  Dickie's 
frankness  might  prejudice  the  high  social  standing  to  which 
they  had  been  so  recently  elevated  by  the  sweet  implications 
of  Martyn's  conversation. 


THE  GOD  OUT  OF  MAYFAIR  177 

"Dick  is  so  tremendously  thorough,"  put^  in  the  Rector 
with  a  nervous  laugh,  and  then  Latimer  with  an  obviously 
ironical  intention  said,  "He's  the  one  bright  hope  of  the 
family,  you  know,  Martyn." 

Martyn's  nod  might  have  meant  anything.  "Do  you 
find  much  time  for  reading?"  he  asked  Dickie. 

"Oh !  every  evening,  and  an  hour  or  two  before  break- 
fast," Dickie  said,  and  then  being  engrossed  in  the  thought 
of  his  subject,  he  added,  "and  Sundays,  of  course." 

His  father  and  mother  and  Eleanor,  the  three  people 
who  had  a  prescriptive  right  to  be  shocked,  would  probably 
have  conveniently  overlooked  that  statement  for  the  time 
being,  if  Mrs.  Richard  Lynneker  had  not  been  present.  They 
all  no  doubt  had  had  suspicions  of  Dickie's  violation  of  the 
Lord's  Day,  but  his  general  behaviour  was  so  good  that  they 
had  preferred  not  to  ask  him  what  he  was  reading,  when 
he  took  his  books  out  on  to  the  lawn  or  up  to  his  bedroom 
on  Sunday  afternoons.  But  Aunt  Mary's  presence  forbade 
any  shirking  of  responsibility. 

The  Rector  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair  and  his  wife 
blushed  and  looked  compromisingly  uncomfortable.  "Not 
on  Sunday,  Dickie?"  Eleanor  said,  and  she,  too,  blushed. 

But  before  he  could  reply  to  that,  Aunt  Mary,  quivering 
a  little,  but  very  bright  and  determined,  bravely  took  up  the 
examination. 

She  was  a  tiny  woman  with  a  sweet,  kind  face ;  a  modest, 
gentle  creature.  But  her  religion  was  the  most  precious 
thing  in  her  life.  In  defence  of  that  she  was  willing  to  suf- 
fer the  martyrdom  of  intruding  into  the  secret  thoughts  of 
a  casual  acquaintance,  or  of  making  herself  conspicuous  in 
a  large  company.  On  occasions  such  as  this  she  found  the 
"strength  to  bear  witness,"  by  offering  one  brief,  silent 
prayer  before  she  spoke. 

"You  don't  mean  that  you  do  any  secular  reading  on  Sun- 
day, Dick?"  she  asked.  She  was  willing  to  give  him  a 
chance.  He  had,  she  thought,  such  a  brave,  honest  face. 

Dickie  was  possibly  the  least  embarrassed  person  at  the 
table, — with  the  doubtful  exception  of  Adela,  who,  although 


178  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

she  secretly  applauded  his  courage,  was  uncomfortably 
conscious  that  he  was  defending  an  attainted  cause.  He 
had  recognised  for  some  time  past  that  this  struggle  must 
be  fought,  sooner  or  later.  He  had  had  no  hesitation  in 
facing  it  on  his  own  account,  but  he  had  decided  that  until 
he  was  definitely  questioned,  he  had  no  reason  to  give  his 
parents  unnecessary  pain. 

"Yes,  Aunt,  I  do,"  he  said,  quietly.  "I  don't  see  any  rea- 
son why  I  shouldn't." 

"  'Thou  shalt  do  no  manner  of  work,' "  his  aunt  quoted 
with  a  gently  reproving  air  of  producing  an  authority  that 
must  override  all  human  reasons. 

Dickie  still  hoped  to  confine  the  argument  to  the  side  issue 
of  Sabbatarianism.  "Yes,  I  know,"  he  said ;  "but  don't  you 
think  it's  a  bit  difficult  to  define  'work'  in  this  connexion? 
There  can't  be  any  hard  and  fast  line.  To  a  theological 
student,  for  instance,  my  books  might  be  a  relaxation ;  and 
it  would  certainly  be  'work'  for  me  to  have  to  read  theology. 
Anyway,  I  don't  count  reading  sociology  as  work." 

Aunt  Mary  was  slightly  confused  by  his  dialectic.  She 
had  all  the  simplicity  of  the  fanatic.  Her  rules  of  life  were 
founded  upon  a  particular  exposition  of  the  Biblical  text, 
and  to  attempt  any  other  reading  was  in  her  phrase  "dan- 
gerous," savouring  of  delusion  and  heresy. 

And,  before  she  could  reply,  the  Rector  cleared  his  throat 
and  said  with  a  half -supplicating  frown,  "St.  Paul  quite 
distinctly  makes  that  point,  my  dear  Dick,  when  he  says 
'neither  walking  in  your  own  ways,  nor  doing  your  own 
pleasure/  " 

Dickie  could  not  place  that  passage  in  his  mind,  but  he 
did  not  question  the  accuracy  of  its  application.  He  saw 
himself  being  driven  back  to  his  fundamental  defence,  and 
for  that  he  was  not  prepared.  He  had  already  come  to  a 
vague  question  of  the  theory  of  the  divine  inspiration  of 
the  Bible,  but  he  had  put  the  problem  on  one  side  until  he 
could  find  time  to  give  it  full  attention.  In  a  way,  he  had 
considered  that  problem  as  being  unimportant.  He  had 


THE  GOD  OUT  OF  MAYFAIR  179 

never  suffered  any  of  the  religious  fervours  and  emotions 
that  had  occasionally  shaken  his  brothers  and  sisters. 

For  a  moment  he  wore  his  mother's  expression  of  rather 
stupid  stubbornness.  Indeed,  he  looked  so  like  her  for  an 
instant  that  he  gave  Martyn  the  chance  he  had  been  waiting 
for. 

"How  like  Aunt  Catherine  Dick  looks,  now  and  again," 
he  said  genially.  "And  I  should  guess  that  he  had  something 
of  her  determination.  I  distinctly  remember  her  being  very 
firm  at  Dick's  christening.  Wasn't  it  Leopold  Albert  she 
wanted  for  him  ?  And  poor  Uncle  Richard  even  went  off  to 
the  church  all  prepared  for  Leopold  Albert  and  nearly 
dropped  our  friend  here  when  he  was  told  to  baptise  him  by 
the  name  of  Richard  Henry."  He  laughed  pleasantly,  and 
concluded,  "You  strongly  resented  the  little  water  you  got, 
Dick,  old  boy.  I  don't  know  what  you  would  have  said  to 
a  font-full." 

Every  one,  except  Aunt  Mary,  cheered  up  at  once.  They 
were  all  glad  to  avoid  the  unhappy  topic  that  Dickie  had  so 
stupidly  opened. 

"Great  Scott,  what  a  young  ass  you  are,"  Latimer  said 
to  him  after  supper,  and  Edward  heartily  concurred  in  the 
description. 

"What  on  earth's  the  good  of  starting  a  theory  like  that 
before  Aunt  Mary?" 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  about  reading  those  sort  of 
books  on  Sunday  ?"  Dickie  asked. 

"Rotten;  like  using  bad  grammar,"  retorted  Latimer. 

Dickie  reflected.    "Oh !  'those  sort,'  "  he  remarked. 

"Quite  a  bright  little  chap  in  some  ways,"  commented 
Edward. 

Obviously,  his  brothers  regarded  his  lack  of  tact  as  more 
reprehensible  than  his  attitude  towards  Sunday  observances. 
But  Aunt  Mary  drew  him  into  a  corner  of  the  drawing- 
room  later  and  asked  him  if  he  would  not  come  and  have 
"a  very  serious  talk"  with  her  next  morning. 

These  reactions  were  precisely  those  he  could  have  an- 
ticipated and  he  could  place  the  others.  His  father  would 


180  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

communicate  his  displeasure  through  his  wife,  who  would 
probably  be  a  little  pathetic  in  her  appeal  to  Dickie's  better 
feelings.  Eleanor  would  reprove  him,  as  she  would  have 
reproved  a  little  boy  in  her  Sunday  school  class.  The  Cul- 
ver cousins  would  carefully  avoid  any  further  reference  to 
the  subject.  And  Adela,  he  thought,  might  back  him  up. 

But  Adela  went  further  than  he  expected. 

She  drew  him  aside,  as  they  were  all  saying  good-night 
after  prayers;  she  took  him  by  the  arm  and  pulled  him 
into  the  hall. 

"I  say,  Dickie,"  she  said  in  a  whisper ;  "don't  you  believe 
in  anything ?  You  know,  in  the  Bible  and  all  that?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  told  her  honestly.  "I  haven't  made  up 
my  mind,  yet.  But  don't  say  anything,  old  girl,  to  Eleanor, 
or  the  mater  or  any  one,  will  you?" 

"Rather  not,"  Adela  said.  She  hesitated  a  moment,  and 
then  whispered  very  urgently :  "I'm  not  quite  sure,  either. 
I'm  glad  you're  not." 

She  fled  away  upstairs  as  if  she  were  afraid  of  being 
followed. 


in 

He  reflected  on  Adela's  confession  as  he  sat  with  the 
others  on  the  front  lawn  after  the  women  had  gone  up 
to  bed.  That  was  another  tradition  of  Halton;  all  the 
women  were  sent  upstairs  at  ten  o'clock,  and  then  the  men 
smoked,  either  in  the  dining-room  or  when,  as  now,  the 
weather  was  warm  enough,  on  the  front  lawn.  The  Rector 
never  smoked  a  pipe  in  his  wife's  presence,  although  he 
permitted  himself  a  cigar  when  he  drove  her  out  from 
Medborough. 

The  garden  smelt  very  sweet  that  night,  and  Dickie,  who 
had  refused  one  of  Martyn's  cigarettes,  sat  a  little  apart 
from  the  smokers  and  inhaled  the  warm  scent  of  the  roses 
that  climbed  all  over  the  front  of  the  house.  He  was  con- 
scious of  a  slight  elation.  He  was  glad  to  have  had  some 


THE  GOD  OUT  OF  MAYFAIR  181 

confirmation,  however  hesitating,  of  his  own  doubts.  He 
had  been  alone,  so  far,  in  this  particular  speculation.  He 
knew  too  well  the  Rectory's  attitude  towards  "atheists,"  to 
expect  any  sympathy  from  his  own  people.  And  even 
Bradshaw  had  been  aggrieved  when  the  subject  had  been, 
tentatively,  broached  to  him. 

"Take  my  tip  and  leave  that  sort  of  thing  alone,  Lyn- 
neker/'  he  had  said.  "What's  good  enough  for  the  Bishop's 
good  enough  for  me,  or  for  you,  too."  He  had  steadily 
refused  to  listen  to  any  argument.  "There's  an  answer  to 
all  these  things,"  had  been  his  defence ;  "but  I  don't  happen 
to  know  it.  It's  no  good  talking  to  me.  If  you  went  and 
argued  it  out  with  the  Bishop,  you'd  get  the  worst  of  it  in 
no  time." 

Dickie  had  not  been  able  to  deny  the  probability,  for  Dr. 
Stewart  Browne,  then  Bishop  of  Medborough,  was  a  dis- 
tinguished historian. 

Remembering  this  conversation  now,  he  mused  on  the 
absurdity  of  being  influenced  by  his  sister's  opinion  when 
he  had  to  set  it  against  that  of  the  author  of  the  "History 
of  the  Church  Through  the  Dark  Ages."  He  had  read  that 
work  and  had  greatly  admired  both  the  manner  and  ma- 
terial of  it.  It  was  so  convincingly  full  of  sound  scholar- 
ship, and  so  singularly  free  from  the  least  suspicion  of  sec- 
tarianism. He  saw  that  his  pleasure  in  finding  an  ally  in 
Adela  was  purely  emotional. 

And  from  that  he  came  to  the  amusing  reflection  that 
Browne's  Church  History  would  have  been  regarded  even  by 
Aunt  Mary  as  an  eminently  suitable  book  for  Sunday 
reading.  He  felt  that  the  illustration  was  too  good  to  be 
missed ;  that  he  must  put  that  point  to  Latimer  and  Edward. 

He  found  that  they  were  admiring  the  quality  of  Martyn's 
cigarettes. 

"You  really  can't  get  anything  decent  down  here/'  Ed- 
ward was  saying,  and  Latimer  grunted  a  warm  endorse- 
ment.— They  spoke  in  low  tones,  unconsciously  influenced, 
perhaps,  by  the  gracious  calm  of  the  night. 

Martyn's  soft,   refined  voice  came  out  of  the   further 


182  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

gloom  with  the  announcement  that  he  bought  his  cigarettes 
at  a  little  shop  just  off  .the  Haymarket.  "They  import 
nothing  but  Egyptians,"  he  explained.  "I  must  send  you 
some  when  I  get  back." 

"Awfully  good  of  you,"  Edward  said,  and  went  on  to 
tell  of  his  failure  to  obtain  just  this  quality  of  tobacco, 
even  at  Cambridge. 

Dickie  waited  for  a  more  favourable  opportunity,  but 
the  subject  of  tobacco  seemed  likely  to  hold  the  conversa- 
tion indefinitely.  They  presently  came  to  the  topic  of 
cigars,  and  the  Rector  joined  in  with  a  recondite  criticism 
of  crops,  a  criticism  to  which  Martyn  responded  with  the 
assured  touch  of  an  expert. 

Dickie  sighed  and  looked  up  at  the  stars.  Discussions 
about  food  or  tobacco  bored  him  unutterably.  He  had 
given  up  hope  of  posing  his  illustration,  when  Martyn  di- 
rectly addressed  him. 

"Are  you  still  there,  Dick?"  he  asked.  "You're  very 
quiet." 

"Don't  know  one  tobacco  from  another,"  grunted  Dickie. 

"Well,  you  don't  smoke,"  commented  Latimer  in  a  slightly 
aggrieved  tone. 

"Does  it  make  you  ill  ?"  Martyn  asked. 

"No !  I  smoke  sometimes,"  Dickie  said.  "Doesn't  appeal 
to  me,  that's  all." 

"I  suppose  you  think  it's  waste  of  time,"  put  in  Edward 
ironically. 

"Suppose  anything  you  jolly  well  like,"  returned  Dickie. 
"Here,  I  wanted  to  ask  you,  would  you  say  that  Browne's 
'Dark  Ages'  was  a  book  for  Sunday  reading?" 

The  Rector  at  the  far  end  of  the  line  mumbled  some- 
thing that  Dickie  could  not  catch. 

"Oh !  well,  of  course,  you  young  ass,"  snapped  Latimer. 

"I  don't  see  why,"  Dickie  replied  eagerly.  "It's  as  much 
work  or  for  'my  own  pleasure,'  as  Conic  Sections." 

"Good  Heavens,  can't  you  understand  the  difference?" 
broke  out  Edward  peevishly.  "It's  the  subject  .  .  ." 


THE  GOD  OUT  OF  MAYFAIR  183 

He  stopped  abruptly  as  if  his  impatience  with  such  crass 
stupidity  had  unexpectedly  boiled  over. 

"Perhaps  it's  taken  for  granted  that  no  one  would  ever 
read  a  theological  subject  for  his  own  pleasure,"  Dickie 
suggested  caustically. 

The  Rector  stood  up ;  and  'the  outline  of  his  figure  be- 
came visible  as  a  vague  blackness  against  the  dark  of  the 
shrubbery  across  the  drive.  "Well,  Martyn,"  he  said,  "don't 
let  me  hurry  you  .  .  ." 

"Latimer  and  I  have  to  go  down  to  'The  Wheatsheaf,'  you 
know,  pater,"  Edward  said.  "I  believe  they  shut  at 
eleven." 

Dickie  was  the  last  of  the  five  to  enter  the  house.  His 
father's  good-night  was  noticeably  cold,  and  Latimer  found 
occasion  to  repeat,  with  a  slight  click  of  the  tongue  and  a 
lift  of  the  head,  his  confirmed  persuasion  that  his  younger 
brother  was  a  "supreme  idiot." 

Up  in  his  own  little  attic  Dickie  wondered  what  they 
would  have  said  if  they  had  heard  Adela's  confession.  Also 
he  wondered  whether  it  was  his  duty  to  study  the  brands 
of  tobacco,  as  a  necessary  social  accomplishment. 

"It's  the  only  kind  of  thing  they're  really  interested  in," 
he  reflected.  .  .  . 

He  and  his  brothers  annoyed  each  other;  and  on  either 
side  the  feeling  of  intolerance  increased  as  they  grew 
older.  He  hardly  ever  met  Edward  or  Latimer,  now,  with- 
out starting  some  argument.  If  you  could  call  it  an  argu- 
ment. His  brothers  invariably  fell  back  upon  some  assump- 
tion of  superior  knowledge,  as  if  they  had  received  some 
imprimatur  conferred  by  the  privileges  of  their  education 
and  calling.  They  contemptuously  dismissed  him  as  "a 
young  ass,"  and  asked  him  if  he  "couldn't  see.  .  .  ."  And 
yet,  they  sometimes  gave  him  the  feeling  that  they  were 
afraid  of  him.  It  seemed  as  if  he  threatened  them — he 
could  not  say  how — but  they  appeared,  he  thought,  more 
and  more  anxious  to  shut  him  up  before  he  had  had  time 
to  explain  himself.  If  he  had  not  been  a  mere  bank-clerk, 
he  might  have  suspected  that  they  were  jealous  of  him. 


184  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

He  wanted  to  understand  that  attitude  of  theirs  just  as 
he  wanted  to  understand  the  ethic  of  his  interference  in 
the  affairs  of  George  Smith.  .  .  . 

It  was  very  hot  in  that  sloping  attic  of  his.  The  Rectory 
faced  a  trifle  west  of  south,  and  even  the  good  Collyweston 
slates  and  sound  old  workmanship  of  the  roof  had  been 
unable  to  keep  out  the  heat  of  the  July  sun.  He  looked 
impatiently  at  his  little  iron  bedstead.  He  had  no  desire  to 
sleep;  he  wanted  to  argue  the  whole  theory  of  life  with 
some  intelligent  antagonist;  some  one  who  would  sincerely 
try  to  answer  his  questions  and  not  put  him  off  by  implying 
that  he  was  too  foolish  to  understand. 

He  thought  with  sudden  longing  of  the  river ;  and  decided 
that  he  would  go  and  have  a  swim.  He  believed  he  could 
get  out  of  the  house  without  waking  any  one.  .  .  . 

And  then  on  the  half- landing  of  the  stairs,  he  met  his 
father  coming  out  of  his  dressing-room. 

"What  do  you  want,  Dick?"  he  asked  sharply. 

"I  was  so  hot,  pater,  and  not  a  bit  sleepy,"  Dickie  said. 
"I'm  going  down  to  the  river  to  have  a  bathe." 

"Absurd  nonsense,"  his  father  returned. 

Dickie  had  never  yet  failed — as  both  his  brothers  had 
often  failed — in  a  decent  respect  for  either  of  his  parents, 
but  to-night  he  felt  that  he  could  no  longer  endure  these 
cobwebs  of  restraint. 

"Really,  pater,  it  isn't  anything  of  the  sort,"  he  said 
quietly,  but  with  much  the  authority  of  a  parent  speaking 
to  a  child.  "It's  frightfully  hot  upstairs  and  I  couldn't 
possibly  go  to  sleep.  I  know  people  don't  usually  go  down 
to  bathe  at  eleven  o'clock  at  night,  but  that's  probably  be- 
cause they  haven't  got  the  energy.  Well,  I  have ;  that's  all. 
Don't  you  think  it  would  be  very  silly  of  me  to  lie  stewing 
upstairs  when  I  might  be  having  a  glorious  swim?"  He 
was  trying  so  hard  to  be  calm  and  reasonable*. 

The  Rector  looked  up,  half  furtively,  at  this  confident, 
determined  youth,  taller  than  himself  by  four  or  five  inches, 
and  physically  capable  of  picking  him  up  and  carrying  him 
downstairs.  But  the  furtiveness  of  his  glance  was  due 


THE  GOD  OUT  OF  MAYFAIR  185 

to  an  intellectual  and  moral  intimidation;  no  question  of 
physical  advantage  could  ever  enter  into  the  relations  of 
father  and  son.  The  Rector  fully  recognised  that  fact 
and  could  have  traded  upon  it.  He  had  but  to  stand  in  his 
son's  way  in  order  to  maintain  his  authority.  Dickie  would 
never  have  attempted  to  push  past  him,  nor  even  have 
threatened  such  a  resort  to  force.  Nevertheless  the  Rector 
stepped  aside,  frowning,  tacitly  condemning  his  son's  pro- 
posed excursion  and  the  method  of  his  argument,  and  yet 
unable  to  oppose  the  force  of  the  boy's  determination. 

Dickie's  resolution  to  have  his  own  way  in  this  affair 
thrust  aside  the  typical  Lynneker  weakness,  with  the  sheer 
strength  of  a  primitive  force.  All  the  attitudes  and  devices 
of  manner  that  served  to  maintain  an  appearance  of  equi- 
poise in  the  affairs  of  ordinary  life  must  inevitably  collapse 
before  the  command  of  this  unequivocating  will  to  a  single 
object. 

And  Dickie  made  no  attempt  to  apologise,  to  explain,  to 
surrender,  for  the  sake  of  present  approval,  the  advantage 
he  had  won.  He  was  not  flushed  with  temper,  nor  con- 
sciously proud  of  his  achievement.  He  betrayed  at  that 
moment  no  single  sign  of  his  Lynneker  blood. 

The  Rector  walked  sulkily  up  to  his  own  room,  unaware 
of  the  fact  that  Martyn,  still  fully  dressed,  had  witnessed 
the  encounter  from  the  top  of  the  short  flight  of  steps 
leading  up  to  his  uncle's  dressing-room.  The  old  man's 
anger  was  shot  with  a  curious  strain  of  resentment  not 
only  against  his  son,  but  against  the  coming  dominance  of 
the  new  generation.  Edward  and  Latimer  had  often  been 
rude  in  moments  of  temper,  but  they  had  always  charm- 
ingly apologised  later.  They  had  never  made  him  feel 
that  he  was  beaten  and  finally  out  of  the  race.  They  were 
still  his  contemporaries,  representative  members  of  his  own 
family  ancftn  all  essentials  of  his  own  period  of  thought. 

He  found  his  wife  still  awake. 

"Dick  has  gone  down  to  the  river  to  bathe/'  he  announced 
with  the  old  fretful  temper.  'Tm  sure  I  don't  know  what 
to  do  with  that  boy." 


186  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

Mrs.  Lynneker  sat  up  in  bed,  so  great  was  her  surprise. 
She  usually  pretended  to  be  sound  asleep  when  her  hus- 
band came  in. 

"To  bathe?"  she  echoed. 

"Some  absurd  nonsense  about  being  too  hot  in  the  attic," 
the  Rector  explained.  "You  will  have  to  speak  to  him  very 
seriously.  I  didn't  at  all  like  the  tone  of  that  discussion  at 
supper,  and  he  began  it  again  while  we  were  on  the  lawn. 
I  wonder  if  Mary  could  do  anything  with  him  ?" 

Mrs.  Lynneker  looked  as  if  her  house-accounts  had  been 
excessive.  Perhaps  it  was  the  tone  of  her  husband's  voice, 
or  it  may  have  been  her  consistent  misunderstanding  of 
him,  but  she  always  felt  on  occasions  of  this  kind  that  it 
was  she  who  was  being  criticised.  In  her  mind  she  was 
defending  herself  against  an  inferred  attack  upon  her  up- 
bringing of  Dickie.  Everything,  virtually,  had  been  left 
to  her  and,  now,  she  was  to  be  blamed  because  her  youngest 
child  had  read  secular  literature  on  a  Sunday,  and  amaz- 
ingly chosen  to  bathe  at  midnight.  .  .  . 

Six  months  ago  Dickie  had  brought  his  parents  into  a 
closer  relationship  than  they  had  known  for  many  years; 
but,  now,  all  his  work  in  that  direction  was  undone.  And 
he,  alone,  of  all  their  children  had  any  real  power  over 
them. 

"I'll  talk  to  Mary  about  him,"  Mrs.  Lynneker  conceded 
grudgingly. 

She  and  her  husband  said  no  more  that  night.  .  .  . 

"Did  I  hear  you  say  you  were  going  to  bathe,  Dick?" 
asked  Martyn,  when  the  Rector  had  entered  his  own  bed- 
room. 

Dickie  had  been  standing  at  the  bottom  of  the  little  flight 
of  stairs,  waiting  for  his  cousin  to  speak. 

"Beastly  hot  up  in  the  attic,"  he  said.  He  felt  unusually 
strong  and  vigorous.  He  had  a  sudden  desire  to  tackle  this 
interesting  unknown  cousin,  to  find  out  if  he  had  any 
theories  of  life. 

"Care  to  come?"  he  asked. 

Martyn  smiled  that  intimate,,  inviting  smile  of  his. 


THE  GOD  OUT  OF  MAYFAIR  187 

"If  you  could  bear  to  wait  while  I  found  a  pair  of 
shoes,"  he  said.  "You  seem  to  have  a  habit  of  impetuosity, 
cousin  Dick." 

"Oh!  I'll  wait.  There's  no  hurry,"  Dickie  returned. 
"I'd  like  to  talk  to  you  about  one  or  two  things." 

Martyn  appeared  faintly  amused.  "Quite,  quite,"  he  said ; 
"I'll  be  with  you  directly." 


IV 

The  moon  in  its  third  quarter  was  rising  in  the  south- 
east as  they  started,  and  in  the  windless  warmth  of  the 
night  it  seemed  to  glow  with  its  own  heat.  Down  in  the 
wide  meadows  by  the  river,  the  cattle  were  moving  uneasily, 
as  if  they,  too,  were  unable  to  sleep.  The  darkness  seemed 
unnatural ;  the  gloom  of  an  annular  eclipse  rather  than  that 
of  midnight. 

And  now  that  they  were  out,  Dickie  felt  suddenly  dis- 
inclined to  open  the  discussion  he  had  so  eagerly  antici- 
pated a  few  minutes  earlier.  He  was  intrigued  by  the 
strange  glamour  of  the  night  that  seemed  as  if  it  could 
disclose  to  him  the  mystery  of  all  religion,  the  hidden 
origins  of  all  worship  and  ceremonial.  The  thought  came 
to  him  that  through  these  dim,  placid  meadows  he  might 
walk  down  into  the  far  deeps  of  a  past  that  existed  still, 
constant  and  unchangeable,  challenging  the  fiction  of  time 
invented  by  mankind.  Those  fundamental  things  remained, 
the  unmoving  background  of  a  human  cycle  of  change  that 
was  but  a  surface  figuring  of  the  eternal  present. 

And  then  the  unfocussed  phantasm  of  his  imagination 
flickered  and  spun  itself  into  the  shape  of  an  unsatisfied 
desire.  It  was  no  new  form  that  was  thus  entrancingly 
presented.  It  had  intruded  its  seductions  into  his  work  at 
the  bank,  and  had  come  between  him  and  his  sociological 
and  ethical  speculations  on  warm  Sunday  afternoons  as 
he  sprawled  on  the  Rectory  lawn.  But  all  his  training  had 
taught  him  to  thrust  these  visions  from  him,  as  the  image 


188  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

of  a  thing  obscene  and  impure  that  was  the  immediate 
invention  and  temptation  of  the  devil.  He  had  been  warned, 
obliquely  and  obscurely,  that  by  this  way  he  might  fall  into 
the  horror  of  unclean  living.  And  he  had  been  strong  in 
self-control.  He  was  no  downcast,  inhibited  creature 
trained  into  a  habit  of  futile  asceticism.  He  had  natural 
powers  of  determination  that  were  the  simple  expression 
of  his  inherent  force  of  character.  Nevertheless,  in  this 
particular,  he  was  confined  by  an  old  rule,  he  had  never 
faced  truth.  His  disgust  was  a  false,  unnatural  attitude 
imposed  from  without.  He  might  dismiss,  with  an  angry 
frown,  the  thoughts  and  sensations  that  had  come  to  him 
in  sleep,  but  he  had  built  up  no  permanent  barrier  between 
him  and  the  urgent  temptations  of  love.  For  all  his  re- 
straints, he  was  weak  in  this ;  because  his  inhibitions  were 
artificial  and  not  of  his  own  expression. 

He  thrust  the  vision  from  him,  now,  with  a  faint  spasm 
of  irritation.  It  seemed  that  it  had  interfered  between 
him  and  the  glimpse  of  some  enduring  beauty.  He  broke 
suddenly  into  speech,  as  the  easiest  means  of  escaping  from 
the  implacable  seduction  of  nature  that  had  taken  form 
and  walked  with  him  through  the  night. 


"What  do  you  think  about  it  all,  cousin  Martyn?"  he 
asked  abruptly. 

"  'All'  having  especial  reference  in  this  connexion  to 
Sunday  reading?"  returned  Martyn. 

Dickie  decided  to  narrow  the  issue.  "Let's  take  that 
as  an  instance,"  he  said. 

They  had  passed  the  field  bridge  under  the  railway,  and 
Martyn  was  no  longer  hampered  by  a  fastidious  need  to 
pick  his  way.  The  wide  pasturage  under  foot  was  visible 
enough,  now,  in  the  light  of  the  rising  moon. 

"I  think  our  little  cousin  Richard  is  by  way  of  being 
rather  too  radical,"  he  said  with  the  intimation  of  a  gesture 


THE  GOD  OUT  OF  MAYFAIR  189 

that  he  might  have  used  in  court.  "Not  politically,  but 
generally.  It's  rather  a  waste  of  good  time,  you  know, 
Dick,"  he  explained.  "Certain  broad  questions  have  been 
very  equably  settled  by  the  experience  of  generations,  and 
you  only  handicap  yourself  by  regauging  the  evidence  with 
altogether  insufficient  material.  Speaking  generally,  you 
understand." 

"But  in  this  case  .  .  ."  Dickie  began. 

"Don't  be  so  impetuous,  old  boy/'  Martyn  interrupted 
him ;  "I  am  coming  to  your  particular  application.  You  see, 
I  don't  think  you  have  good  enough  reason  to  run  counter 
to  the  opinions  of  your  own  people  in  this  case.  Personally, 
of  course,  I  think  those  opinions — er — a  little  narrow,  per- 
haps. But  you,  for  the  present  at  least,  have  to  abide  by 
them.  You  can  never  hope  to  change  your  family's  atti- 
tude; that's  beyond  the  powers  of  the  most  youthful  en- 
thusiast. You  must  take  that  as  irrevocably  fixed.  So, 
really,  don't  you  think  it's  rather  for  your  own  benefit  to 
conform,  in  outward  appearance  at  least,  so  long  as  you're 
living  with  people  who  regard  the  principles  of  Sabbatarian- 
ism as  a — well,  as  a  Divine  ordinance?" 

Dickie  looked  puzzled.  He  had  already  caught  some 
glimpse  of  the  possible  necessity  for  this  semblance  of  con- 
forming in  relation  to  the  larger  question,  but  there  he  had 
been  willing  to  procrastinate  because  he  had,  as  yet,  no 
clearness  of  mind.  He  believed  that  his  parents'  attitude 
towards  Sunday  reading  was  demonstrably  illogical  and 
unsound,  even  from  their  own  premises. 

"But,  look  here,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "if  you're  sure 
you're  right  .  .  ." 

"We  are  all  sure  of  that,"  laughed  Martyn,  pleasantly. 

"Well,  then,  what  about  what  Aunt  Mary  calls  'bearing 
witness'  ?" 

"I  rather  think  Aunt  Mary  does  it,  and  advocates  it, 
for  more  disinterested  reasons." 

"Oh!  yes,  I  know,  she  does,"  Dickie  admitted. 

"You  see,  old  fellow,"  Martyn  went  on  genially.  "If 
we  were  all  to  begin  bearing  witness,  whenever  we  thought 


190  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

we  had  proved  that  our  own  convenience  would  be  served — 
justly  served,  if  you  like — by  upholding  our  own  opinions, 
the  world  would  be  a  horribly  unpleasant  place  to  live  in. 
One  needn't  press  the  adage  about  Rome  and  the  Romans 
too  far,  but  there  is  an  underlying  truth  in  it.  So  often 
it  isn't  expedient,  for  every  one's  sake,  to  set  up  our  own 
little  private  standard,  and  declare  that  we're  going  to 
abide  by  it.  It  reminds  one  of  those  terrible  people  who 
seem  to  go  abroad  merely  in  order  to  brag  of  being  English. 
It's  so  provincial,  Dick;  it's  so  parochial." 

They  had  come  to  the  river,  to  a  place  at  which  the 
abundant  growth  of  rushes,  waterlily  and  floating  weed 
had  left  the  bank  clear  for  a  few  yards  above  deep  water, 
and  the  bank  fell  perpendicularly  from  six  feet  above  the 
stream. 

"My  diving  pool,"  Dickie  explained ;  "only  you  can't  get 
out  here.  I  swim  round  and  come  out  at  what  they  call 
the  bathing  place."  He  went  on  without  a  pause  as  he 
rapidly  stripped  himself.  "There's  an  awful  lot  in  what 
you've  just  been  saying,  Martyn;  and  I  haven't  got  any 
answer  ready  for  you  yet.  We'll  discuss  it  going  back, 
shall  we?" 

"Quite,"  agreed  Martyn. 

He  carefully  felt  the  grass  and  having  assured  himself 
that  it  was  dry,  sat  down  and  took  out  his  cigarette  case. 
The  burnished  gold  of  it  flashed  once  in  the  moonlight,  and 
Dickie  thought  of  the  City  &  County  and  then  of  its 
financial  test  of  position.  The  word  "expedience"  was  ring- 
ing in  his  mind.  All  his  commercial  life  was,  in  effect,  ruled 
by  some  version  of  this  key  to  cor  rectitude  in  the  respectable 
business  of  banking.  "Expedient"  was  a  favourite  word  of 
Mr.  Bell's,  and  Dickie  had  never  criticised  his  use  of  it. 
But  out  here,  in  the  freedom  of  the  night,  the  thought  of 
expedience  and  the  flash  of  gold  irked  him  with  a  dozen 
reminders  of  all  that  stale  dusty  business  of  the  handling 
and  calculation  of  money. 

He  stood  quite  still  for  a  few  moments,  thinking  pro- 
foundly. He  was  stark  naked,  now,  but  he  had  the  absolute 


THE  GOD  OUT  OF  MAYFAIR  191 

modesty  of  the  unashamed.  The  perfect  unconsciousness 
of  his  attitude  revealed  the  fine  chastity  of  his  mind.  It 
was  incredible  that  he  could  ever  make  a  jest  of  the  grosser 
functions  of  his  body. 

For  one  instant,  as  he  stood  there,  he  seemed  to  be  the 
representative  of  some  finer  race  still  to  come,  the  race 
that  shall  have  acquired  a  greater  independence  of  mind, 
that  in  their  humour  shall  laugh  over  greater  issues  than 
their  own  mechanical  limitations.  And  five  seconds  later 
he  was  a  modern  schoolboy,  revelling  and  sporting  in  the 
touch  of  the  cool  water;  calling  to  his  cousin  that  he  "ought 
to  come  in,"  that  the  river  was  "ripping"  and  "clinking"; 
tossing  his  head  and  splashing  and  blowing  like  a  porpoise. 

Martyn  had  winced  when  Dickie  plunged,  but  he  need 
not  have  feared  a  sprinkling.  Dickie  had  gone  into  his  pool 
with  the  clean  grace  of  an  accomplished  diver.  Now,  as 
he  listened  to  his  cousin's  boyish  shouts  of  enjoyment, 
Martyn  was  congratulating  himself  on  the  accomplishment 
of  a  desired  object. 

His  belief  in  the  tradition  of  the  Lynnekers  and  in  the 
advantages  of  family  was  the  most  real  thing  in  his  life. 
He  had  always  cherished  the  ambition  of  reinstating  him- 
self in  the  old  family  home,  of  rebuilding  the  house  and 
taking  up  again  some  semblance  of  the  old  state.  But  he 
had  soon  realised  his  own  limitations  as  a  barrister.  He  had 
manner,  presence,  even  eloquence,  but  not  that  apprehensive 
mental  grasp  which  is  essential  to  the  successful  lawyer. 
The  Lynneker  vein  of  incapacity,  the  inability  to  maintain 
attention  for  any  protracted  length  of  time  was  fatal  to 
him.  No  ease  of  manner  or  quickness  of  wit  could  com- 
pensate for  the  fact  that  when  he  came  into  court,  he  had 
not  mastered  his  brief.  The  lawyers  who  had  engaged 
him  as  junior  on  some  recommendation  or  another,  soon 
marked  his  weakness.  They  said  it  was  a  "pity";  that 
he  had  many  qualifications  and  might  have  done  well  if  he 
had  not  been  so  "damnably  careless."  He  was  not  careless ; 
at  thirty  he  had  been  anxious  and  eager,  but  he  suffered 
from  the  awful  Lynneker  inertia.  There  were  times  when 


192  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

he  could  not  by  any  effort  of  will  concentrate  his  attention 
on  the  dull  details  of  a  case. 

His  marriage  had  given  him  new  hope,  but  his  wife  had 
proved  difficult.  Her  father's  baronetcy,  now  held  by  her 
cousin,  was  one  of  the  oldest  in  England.  From  her 
standpoint  the  Lynnekers  were  merely  good  yeoman  stock, 
and  as  she  had  no  children,  she  intended  the  bulk  of  her 
fortune  to  return  to  the  Strouds. 

And  so,  tentatively,  for  the  last  year  or  two,  Martyn  had 
been  toying  with  the  fancy  that  he  might  play  fairy-god- 
father to  one  of  his  own  people ;  and  he  had  looked  round, 
trying  to  discover  among  his  younger  cousins  some  sign 
of  aptitude  or  capacity  that  might  be  worth  encourage- 
ment. That  preliminary  survey  had  been  a  complete  fail- 
ure. He  knew  his  own  breed  so  well,  and  was  peculiarly 
quick  to  note  the  marks  of  his  own  inertia.  He  had  had 
one  of  the  Culver  boys  staying  with  him  for  a  month  in 
town  that  May,  a  desperate  hope  that  had  ended  rather 
disastrously  in  a  liaison  with  one  of  the  Mayfair  house- 
maids. 

But,  to-night,  his  sanguine  temperament  induced  him  to 
believe  that  his  object  was  attained;  and  as  he  watched  the 
boisterous  Dickie  revelling  in  his  midnight  bathe,  Martyn 
was,  in  thought,  genially  congratulating  his  uncle  on  having 
introduced  that  strong  plebeian  strain  of  the  tea-merchant 
to  qualify  the  poor  Lynneker  blood.  Edward  and  Latimer 
had  missed  the  benefit ;  but  this  gloriously  radical  young 
dissenter,  with  his  aptitude  for  figures,  his  robustness  and 
his  beauty  (Martyn  had  missed  no  detail  of  that  handsome 
head  and  firm  strength  of  body,  faintly  mystified  by  the 
failing  moonlight),  was  an  ideal  hitherto  beyond  the  ampli- 
tude of  his  most  inspired  imaginings. 

All  this  suggestion  of  nonconformity  was  but  the  ebul- 
lience of  youth,  he  thought ;  a  little  instruction  in  the  ways 
of  the  world,  a  little  experience  under  the  influence  of  good 
example,  a  little  tactful  management — and  these  anarchic 
symptoms  would  quickly  be  reduced. 


THE  GOD  OUT  OF  MAYFAIR  193 

Dickie's  head  suddenly  emerged  in  the  middle  of  the 
bathing-pool. 

"I'll  just  swim  down  and  come  out,  now,"  he  announced 
breathlessly.  "Had  a  clinking  bathe." 

The  black  ripples  that  marked  his  passage  down  the  river 
were  edged  and  inlaid  with  a  delicate  filigree  of  silver 
moonlight. 

They  did  not  revert  to  their  discussion  on  the  way  home. 
Dickie  was  abounding  with  physical  energy;  he  jumped 
ditches  for  the  sole  reason  of  jumping  back  again;  and 
once  he  threw  himself  down  and  rolled  exuberantly  in  the 
grass. 

"I  feel  awfully  fit,  to-night,"  was  the  only  apology  he 
offered  to  his  cousin. 

Martyn  smiled  affectionately.  He  was  glad  to  be  left 
alone  with  his  mounting  dreams. 

A  little  tact,  he  thought,  a  little  management,  was  all 
that  was  required. 

VI 

He  suffered  a  slight  reaction  the  next  morning.  The 
atmosphere  of  the  breakfast  table  was  a  little  chilly.  Ed- 
ward, Latimer  and  Adela  had  all  been  late  for  prayers. 
This  was  a  special  occasion,  and  their  excuses  would  have 
been  accepted  by  their  father  if  the  family  had  been  alone, 
but  Aunt  Mary's  presence  compromised  him.  Both  he  and 
his  wife  were  conscious  of  coming  under  criticism.  They 
were  both  very  fond  of  their  sister-in-law  but  her  amaz- 
ingly consistent  piety  rather  shamed  them  at  times. 

And  if  she  made  no  reference  at  breakfast  to  the  defect 
of  earnestness  implied  in  missing  family  worship,  she  was 
ominously  quiet,  and  made  what  might  have  been  a  preface 
to  the  general  attack  by  asking  Dickie  if  he  could  come 
and  have  a  quiet  talk  with  her  that  morning. 

"I'm  afraid  not,  Aunt,"  he  said  without  a  shadow  of 
hesitation.  He  looked  very  fresh  and  vigorous,  and  was 
eating  quite  an  astonishing  breakfast,  Martyn  noticed. 


194  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

Aunt  Mary  looked  up  with  a  little  flush  of  hurt  sur- 
prise. "I  should  very  much  like  .  .  ."  she  began  with  the 
hint  of  a  quiver  in  her  voice. 

"But  I'm  just  off  to  the  Bank,  you  see,  Aunt,"  Dickie 
explained. 

"Oh!  I  didn't  know.  I  thought  you  would  be  sure  to 
have  a  holiday,  to-day,"  she  said. 

Dickie  smiled  tolerantly.  "I  don't  know  why  every  one 
seems  to  think  I  can  take  a  day  off  whenever  I  like,"  he 
remarked.  "Mater  and  Edward  suggested  that  I  should 
stay  at  home  to-day.  And  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Mr.  Bell  has 
to  go  up  to  the  head-office  this  morning,  and  Bradshaw  and 
I  will  be  in  charge,  with  two  confounded  juniors  to  look 
after  into  the  bargain.  Been  rather  hard  work  since  Cart- 
wright  was  transferred, — he  was  our  head  cashier,  you 
know,  Aunt." 

"I  suppose  you  feel  tremendously  important,"  put  in 
Latimer. 

Dickie  leaned  forward  and  looked  at  his  brother,  who 
was  sitting  on  the  same  side  of  the  table.  He  was  not 
angry  with  Latimer.  Those  foolish  sneers  of  his  never  hurt 
Dickie;  they  were  always  too  wide  of  the  truth.  But  he 
was  peculiarly  conscious  of  the  web  about  him  that  morn- 
ing. He  had  been  up  since  a  quarter  to  seven  overhauling 
his  decadent  bicycle,  and  as  he  had  worked,  he  had  been 
harried  by  a  feeling  of  restraint.  The  influence  of  the  night, 
and  the  strange  sense  of  liberty  it  had  brought,  was  still 
strong  about  him;  and  now,  the  threat  of  this  futile  con- 
versation that  he  must  hold  with  Aunt  Mary,  had  come 
to  symbolise  all  the  petty  hindrances  that  prevented  the 
free  expression  of  his  thought.  He  cared  so  much  for  his 
family  that  he  desired  all  the  more  eagerly  to  be  per- 
fectly frank  with  them. 

"Why  important,  Latimer?"  he  asked,  with  a  challenging 
air. 

Latimer  flushed  and  kept  his  eyes  averted  as  he  muttered, 
"Sounded  as  if  you  thought  the  Bank  would  smash  if  you 
weren't  there."  He  was  always  embarrassed  by  his  broth- 


THE  GOD  OUT  OF  MAYFAIR  195 

er's  direct  attack.  He  had  preferred  to  avoid  any  direct 
encounter  ever  since  the  historic  fight  in  that  dining-room 
in  which  they  were  now  sitting;  but  he  thought  he  was 
safe  in  the  present  company. 

Dickie  still  leaned  forward.  "Well,  can't  you  distin- 
guish between  sticking  to  your  job  and  imagining  it  can't 
get  on  without  you  ?"  he  asked.  "Or  is  the  idea  of  sticking 
to  any  job  beyond  your  conception?" 

A  perceptible  shiver  ran  round  the  table.  He  had  touched 
them  all,  except  Aunt  Mary,  who  was  not  a  Lynneker, 
on  their  most  sensitive  side.  Even  Martyn  looked  thought- 
ful and  perplexed.  They  were  offended,  and  every  one 
of  them  was  prepared  to  deny  strenuously  that  the  implied 
charge  was  true.  But  they  broke  into  no  clamour  of  ex- 
postulation. Latimer  mumbled  something  half  audible 
about  "infernal  bumptiousness";  the  Rector  looked  osten- 
sibly at  his  watch;  Edward  frowned  in  the  very  manner 
of  his  father;  and  then  one  of  the  Culver  girls  began  very 
brightly  to  relate  an  adventure  with  "such  a  tremendous 
moth,"  that  had  invaded  their  room  last  evening. 

Without  question,  they  were  all  relieved  when  Dickie 
took  his  father's  hint,  and  said  that  he  was  afraid  he  must 
go.  It  was  characteristic  of  him  that  in  face  of  all  that 
implicit  disapproval  he  would  not  forsake  his  point. 

"I  suppose  you'd  feel  important,  Latimer,  if  you  were 
ever  in  time  for  anything,"  was  his  parting  shaft. 

But  Martyn,  although  he  had  been  glad  to  be  spared  the 
unpleasantness  of  a  scene  at  the  table,  and  although  he 
was  beginning  to  realise  that  the  proper  training  of  Dickie 
was  not  a  work  to  be  lightly  undertaken,  was  nevertheless 
very  conscious  of  regret  at  Dickie's  absence  during  the 
day.  Something  went  with  him  out  of  the  air  of  the  Rec- 
tory. Latimer's  assertions  of  Dickie's  requirements  in  the 
matter  of  kicking  when  he  and  Edward  and  Martyn  were 
out  in  the  garden  after  breakfast,  appeared  as  stupid,  rather 
boyish  brag.  Edward's  man-of- the- world  air,  and  his  at- 
tempts to  revive  last  nightjs  discussion  of  tobacco  were 
flat  and  boring.  The  Culver  girls  were  so  obvious,  and 


196  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

Mrs.  Richard  Lynneker's  piety  an  intrusive  nuisance.  It 
was  all  so  stale  and  familiar,  so  terrifyingly  representative 
of  the  do-nothing,  charming  Lynneker  type. 

Martyn,  moving  delicately  and  tactfully  among  his  rela- 
tions, found  his  thoughts  continually  dwelling  with  a  sense 
of  expectation  on  Dickie's  return  from  the  Bank.  In 
Martyn's  thoughts  that  day,  Dickie  rose  to  become  Prime 
Minister. 

The  ambition  wore  an  air  of  sufficient  plausibility.  The 
Bar  was  to  be  the  gate  of  entry.  Influence  could  be  used ; 
influence  would  be  found  easily  enough  to  back  such  un- 
doubted ability.  In  five  or  six  years  he  could  be  tried  at 
some  hopeless  by-election.  After  that,  a  seat  would  be 
found  for  him.  And  the  moment  was  a  happy  one.  Mar- 
tyn knew  that  the  impending  election  would  return  the 
Salisbury  ministry  to  power  with  a  thumping  majority. 
The  Liberals  were  no  longer  a  party.  Chamberlain  and 
Devonshire  had  come  over  to  the  right  side.  Rosebery 
was  at  loggerheads  with  Harcourt ;  and  the  country  at  large 
was  sick  of  Home  Rule,  and  regarded  Local  Veto  and 
Welsh  Disestablishment  with  no  particular  favour.  The 
Liberals  had  no  men  and  no  platform.  Martyn  was  quite 
confident  as  to  the  result  of  next  week's  general  election. 


VII 

In  the  afternoon  he  expounded  that  subject  to  his  uncle, 
who  listened  with  respect,  was  greatly  comforted  by  his 
brilliant  nephew's  assurance  of  victory,  and  only  made  one 
reference  to  the  scoundrelism  of  Gladstone.  And  then 
Martyn,  warmed  by  the  obvious  appreciation  of  his  gifts, 
and  elated  by  the  consciousness  of  power  and  the  fervour 
of  his  dreams,  opened  his  proposition  with  regard  to  Dickie 
— already  the  plan  had  taken  practical  shape.  He  went  so 
far  as  to  assert  that  Dickie  had  the  brains  of  the  family. 

The  Rector  made  but  a  single  protest.  When  this 
startling  proposition  was  opened,  he  was  "still  suffering  per- 


THE  GOD  OUT  OF  MAYFAIR  197 

plexed  qualms  anent  the  increasing  difficulty  of  "managing" 
his  youngest  son.  He  was  like  a  little  child  confronted  by 
some  petty  obstacle,  and  confusedly  trying  to  overcome  it 
while  a  dozen  other  paths  lay  open  to  him.  He  had  become 
entangled  in  the  intricacies  of  his  own  plans  to  set  Dickie 
right  concerning  the  need  for  respect  of  the  Church's  teach- 
ing. He  had  been  conscious  of  an  added  strength  in  the 
presence  of  Aunt  Mary.  The  Rector  and  his  wife  had 
confessed  that  they  always  "felt  better"  for  her  visits.  She 
was  such  a  splendid  example  of  "godly  life." 

And  so,  just  at  the  opening  of  Martyn's  proposition  to 
adopt  Dickie,  Mr.  Lynneker  frowned  uneasily  and  pro- 
tested that  he  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  the  boy,  and 
asserted  that  he  was  headstrong  and  self-opinionated.  But 
Martyn's  enthusiasm  and  his  confidence  that  these  faults 
were  but  the  first  indication  of  a  strong  personality,  soon 
diverted  the  Rector's  imagination  into  another  channel. 
Before  the  probable  glories  of  Dickie's  career  had  been 
half  unfolded,  his  father  was  thrilling  with  a  faith  that 
even  outran  his  nephew's.  The  old  dream  of  the  Oakstone 
prize-day  returned  with  a  new  force,  returned  and  took  a 
stronger,  more  definite  shape.  .  .  . 

The  tea-party  in  the  drawing-room  despatched  Latimer, 
at  last,  to  see  "what  had  become  of  your  father  and  cousin 
Martyn,"  as  Mrs.  Lynneker  put  it.  She  was  in  very  good 
spirits  that  day.  She  liked  the  company  of  the  extra 
visitors, — she  was  always  at  her  best  among  a  large  com- 
pany,— and  she  looked  forward  to  the  exciting  ceremony 
of  the  next  afternoon. 

The  Rector's  chair  had  been  kept  empty  for  him,  but 
he  refused  to  take  it  when  he  came  in,  pressing  Martyn 
into  it,  and  then  announcing,  without  preface,  that  his 
nephew  had  something  to  tell  them. 

Edward  looked  self-conscious  and  modestly  busied  him- 
self with  an  empty  tea-cup.  In  the  circumstances  he  could 
feel  no  doubt  that  the  announcement  concerned  himself; 
and  Martyn  certainly  seemed  to  know  the  right  people. 


198  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

For  one  ecstatic  moment  the  vision  of  a  future  bishopric 
danced  before  Edward's  eyes. 

"Oh!  it's  nothing,  nothing,"  Martyn  said  with  his  in- 
gratiating, aristocratic  smile.  "Uncle  Henry  and  I  have 
been  discussing  Dick's  future,  that's  all.  You  see,  Aunt, 
I  have  as  great  a  faith  in  Dick's  possibilities  as  you  have, 
yourself." 

"Martyn  has  most  generously  offered  to  pay  all  Dick's 
expenses  and  train  him  for  the  Bar,  under  his  own  aegis," 
put  in  the  Rector. 

"With  the  idea  of  putting  him  forward,  later,  as  a  candi- 
date for  Parliament,"  added  Martyn  casually. 

One  of  the  Culver  girls  was  heard  to  whisper  that  Martyn 
was  such  "a  capital  person." 

Edward  came  forward  with  the  remark  that  "it  would 
be  a  magnificent  chance  for  Dickie."  He  wanted  to  make 
it  quite  clear,  at  once,  that  he  had  never  imagined  it  pos- 
sible that  Martyn  could  do  anything  for  him.  And  Latimer 
had  no  choice  save  to  display  his  generosity  and  his  ready 
forgiveness  of  the  breakfast-table  incident  by  admitting 
that  Dickie  had  "certainly  got  a  lot  in  him."  (Even  when 
they  were  alone,  together,  later,  Edward  and  Latimer  were 
at  immense  pains  to  disguise  their  chagrin  from  each  other.) 

Mrs.  Lynneker  beamed  her  gratitude.  "You're  the  deus 
ex  machina,  Martyn,"  she  said.  "Doesn't  that  mean  the 
god  out  of  Mayfair?" 

"Can  you  see  Dickie  in  a  wig  and  gown?"  asked  Adela 
of  the  company  in  general,  and  Diana,  the  youngest  Culver 
girl,  who  had  the  reputation  of  a  mimic,  was  suddenly  in- 
spired to  "do"  her  cousin.  She  had  caught  one  or  two  of 
his  gestures  and  produced  a  very  fair  imitation  of  his 
voice. 

Aunt  Mary,  after  she  had  entered  the  hesitating  sugges- 
tion that  London  was  full  of  temptations  for  the  young, 
seemed  pleased  that  her  nephew  should  have  such  wide 
opportunity  to  develop  his  powers. 

Without  doubt,  they  all  believed  in  him.  Even  Edward 
and  Latimer  had  faith  in  his  ability.  They  felt  it  to  be 


THE  GOD  OUT  OF  MAYFAIR  199 

their  duty  to  criticise  the  form  his  ability  had  taken, — it 
was  uncharacteristic,  it  did  not  conform  to  their  natural 
tastes  or  to  the  traditions  of  the  family, — but,  however 
grudging  their  admiration,  and  they  were  excusably  biassed 
by  the  reflection  cast  upon  their  own  competence,  they 
recognised  the  virtue  of  just  those  qualities  which  they 
themselves  lacked.  In  small  ways  they  had  secretly  at- 
tempted to  imitate  him. 

The  whole  party  sat  so  long  over  tea  discussing  Dickie's 
future,  that  they  were  still  in  the  drawing-room  when  he 
returned  from  the  Bank. 


VIII 

Diana  had  the  happy  impulse  to  stand  up  and  bow  to  him 
as  he  came  into  the  room.  His  mother  instantly  accepted 
the  cue  and  followed  suit ;  and  then  all  the  others,  even  his 
father  and  Aunt  Mary,  rose  and  faced  the  hero  of  the  occa- 
sion. They  were  in  a  mood  to  chaff  him;  a  little  self-con- 
scious of  the  inherent  weakness  in  themselves  that  made 
them  build  such  high  hopes  on  his  power  to  bring  honour 
to  the  family. 

Dickie  stopped  in  the  doorway  and  looked  back  at  them 
with  a  tolerant  smile. 

"I  haven't  got  the  joke,  yet,"  he  said. 

"We're  doing  honour  to  the  future  Prime  Minister,"  his 
mother  announced. 

"The  hope  of  the  family,"  Aunt  Mary  added,  in  her  clear, 
sweet  voice. 

"I  hadn't  heard  of  it,  you  know,"  Dickie  said.  "I  sup- 
pose there  isn't  any  tea  going?  It's  frightfully  hot." 

Martyn  stood  with  his  arm  on  the  mantelpiece,  quietly 
conscious  of  the  fact  that  he  was  the  god  from  May  fair 
who  had  wrought  all  this  happiness  and  excitement. 

Dickie  learnt  the  story  of  his  promotion  piecemeal  as 
he  drank  his  cold  tea.  He  rose  to  the  ministry  by  Adela's 
suggestion  through  the  chancellorship  of  the  Exchequer 
because  he  was  "so  good  at  counting  money." 


200  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

He  made  no  reply  to  the  battery  of  chaff  that  lit  up  the 
background  of  his  father's  half-humorous  recountal  of 
"Martyn's  generous  offer";  but  once  or  twice  he  looked 
up  questioningly  at  his  cousin,  who  nodded  intimately  as 
if  to  say  that  they  two  would  discuss  the  true  inwardness 
of  this,  later. 

"It's  most  tremendously  good  of  you,  cousin  Martyn," 
Dickie  said,  at  last,  when  it  was  evident  that  all  the  essen- 
tials of  the  Grand  Announcement — Adela's  phrase — had 
been  told. 

"You're  putting  the  shoe  on  the  wrong  foot,  Dick,"  re- 
turned Martyn  gracefully.  "I'm  looking  to  you  to  do  some- 
thing for  the  family.  We  want  some  one  to  represent  us." 

"Aren't  you  going  to  bow  ?"  interpolated  Edward. 

Dickie  blushed  uncomfortably.  He  was  embarrassed  by 
all  these  compliments,  whether  they  came  direct  as  from 
Martyn,  or  were  couched  in  the  half-ironical  manner  of  his 
own  people.  He  was  by  no  means  sure,  as  yet,  if  he  wanted 
to  accept  the  offer  that  had  been  made  to  him.  There  were 
so  many  problems  to  be  settled ;  and  if  he  were  to  read 
for  the  Bar  he  would  have,  he  thought,  no  time  for  other 
issues.  And  he  would  no  longer  be  free.  He  would  owe 
everything  to  his  cousin.  It  would  be  his  duty  to  follow 
Martyn's  direction,  and  already  Dickie  knew  that  that  would 
conflict  with  his  own  ideal  of  conduct.  Expedience!  He 
would  always  be  confronted  with  that  oily  word,  expedience. 

He  got  to  his  feet  and  bowed  clumsily  to  Martyn.  "I  say, 
you  won't  mind  if  I  think  this  over  a  bit,  will  you?"  he 
asked. 

"Oh!  quite,  quite,"  agreed  Martyn  readily.  "And  we 
must  discuss  it  with  each  other." 

"Oh,  rather !  Thanks,"  Dickie  said  awkwardly,  and  then, 
"Isn't  it  getting  awfully  late,  mater?'' 

"What  an  extraordinary  chap  you  are,"  commented  Ed- 
ward. 

A  chill  had  come  over  them.  They  could  not  help  feel- 
ing that  they  had  in  some  way  been  reproved  for  their 
enthusiasm.  It  had  never  occurred  to  any  of  them  that 


THE  GOD  OUT  OF  MAYFAIR  201 

such  a  plan  as  this  could  require  to  be  "thought  over." 
It  was  the  obvious,  romantic  introduction  to  fame ;  naturally 
they  had  accepted  Martyn's  offer  with  enthusiasm  and  made 
an  occasion  of  it.  Now  they  felt  a  little  like  children,  called 
to  order  in  the  middle  of  a  romping,  noisy  game.  And  they 
excused  themselves  and  their  resentment  by  finding  fault 
with  Dickie.  Edward  had  summed  up  the  general  feeling 
when  he  declared  that  his  brother  was  an  extraordinary 
chap.  He  was,  indeed,  not  "ordinary"  by  Lynneker  stand- 
ards; and  for  these  ten  people  in  the  rectory  drawing- 
room  any  other  standard  was  a  thing  suspect,  savouring 
of  radicalism. 


IX 

Even  Martyn,  who  could  not  count  himself  among  the 
rebuked,  was  slightly  depressed.  He  had  anticipated  dif- 
ficulties in  the  progress  of  Dickie's  social  education;  but 
not  an  initial  obstacle  to  be  overcome. 

He  hesitated  on  the  verge  of  an  excuse  when  Dickie 
proposed  that  they  should  go  out  into  the  garden  after 
supper.  "There  are  one  or  two  things  I  should  like  to 
ask  you,"  Dickie  said. 

Edward,  the  only  other  person  in  the  dining-room  at  that 
moment,  was  provoked  to  remonstrate. 

"You  don't  seem  to  realise,"  he  said,  getting  very  red, 
and  indignant,  "that  cousin  Martyn  has  made  you  an  ex- 
traordinarily generous  offer.  I  suppose  it  doesn't  strike 
you  that  you  might  be  decently  grateful,  and  leave  him  to 
ask  the  questions."  And  then  he  got  so  hot  over  his  ina- 
bility to  express  his  condemnation  that  he  descended  to 
something  approaching  vituperation.  "Is  it  that  you  haven't 
got  any  sense  of  decency  ?"  he  asked.  "Or  do  you  get  your 
manners  from  those  cads  in  the  Bank?" 

Dickie  looked  at  his  brother  with  restrained  contempt. 
He  was  growing  tired  of  these  Lynneker  rules  of  life,  these 
conventions  of  what  they  called  decency. 


202  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"Oh !  good  Lord !"  he  said,  "this  is  my  affair,  not  yours, 
and  I'm  going  to  consider  it  in  my  own  way.  I  can't  help 
it  if  it  isn't  your  way.  If  you  don't  like  it,  go  upstairs  and 
wash  as  you  do  after  you've  been  visiting  your  parishioners. 
But  don't  talk  all  this  rot  about  decency  to  me;  I'm  sick 
of  it." 

Edward's  flush  did  not  subside,  but  he  could  not  meet 
his  brother's  quiet,  unshrinking  stare.  He  looked  down  at 
the  table-cloth  and  began  to  fidget  with  the  salt-cellar. 
"You're  so  infernally  .  .  ."  he  began,  and  then  passion- 
ately upset  the  salt-cellar  and  went  out,  slamming  the  door 
behind  him. 

He  had  done  as  much  as  any  Lynneker  could,  in  the  face 
of  great  opposition.  The  utter  abandonment  implied  by 
his  spilling  of  the  salt  must  surely  show  that  he  was  in- 
tensely in  earnest.  But  until  the  threat  of  his  violence 
had  had  time  to  produce  an  apology,  he  meant  to  keep  his 
temper  at  white  heat.  He  could  not  face  the  company  in 
the  drawing-room,  and  had  reached  the  first  floor  before 
he  realised  that  there  was  no  bedroom  in  which  he  could 
take  refuge.  And  presently,  when  he  had  stood  gloomily 
staring  out  of  the  landing  window  for  nearly  twenty  min- 
utes, he  came  agreeably  to  the  decision  that,  after  all, 
Dickie's  rudeness  was  not  worth  all  this  trouble  and  fuss. 

As  he  returned  to  the  society  of  his  family,  he  deter- 
mined to  be  very  polite  and  distant  with  his  younger  brother 
in  future.  He  found  consolation  in  the  thought  that  he 
was  to  be  married  next  day.  Helen  would  necessarily  take 
his  part  after  to-morrow ;  and  he  would  have  more  authority. 
They  would  ask  Dickie  to  stay  with  them  and  set  him  an 
example  of  good  manners.  .  .  . 

And  Dickie  had  forgotten  the  scene  before  Edward  had 
been  gone  two  minutes. 

"You  see,  Martyn,"  he  began,  "I  do  feel  that  your  offer's 
so  tremendously  important.  Perhaps  Edward  is  right;  I 
expect  I'm  a  bit  rude  sometimes;  but  I  take  these  things 
more  seriously  than  they  do." 

Martyn  had  turned  his  back  on  the  two  brothers  and 


THE  GOD  OUT  OF  MAYFAIR  203 

walked  over  to  the  window  while  the  quarrel  was  in 
progress.  He  came  back  into  the  room,  now,  and  smiled,  a 
little  abstractedly,  at  his  cousin.  "Oh !  „  yes,  quite,"  he 
said. 

"Shall  we  go  into  the  garden?"  Dickie  continued,  with 
a  glance  at  the  supper  table.  "I  expect  they  want  to 
clear  away." 

Martyn  nodded,  as  if  he  were  thinking  of  something, 
else.  He  often  used  an  appearance  of  absent-mindedness 
as  a  defence  against  direct  attack. 

He  wore  that  look,  still,  as  he  listened  to  Dickie's  case 
in  the  twilit  garden;  and  his  replies  were  largely  confined 
to  his  agreeable  "Quite,"  or  to  *a  nod  of  the  head  that 
seemed  to  admit  his  ability  to  appreciate  the  point  of  view 
presented,  while  he  held  some  difficult  objection  per- 
manently in  reserve.  His  manner  was  a  criticism  of  his 
cousin's  case ;  it  implied  an  exquisitely  polite  tolerance  of  the 
other's  immaturity. 

"You  see,"  Dickie  said,  "I  haven't  at  all  made  up  my 
mind  yet  about  politics.  I  admit  I  haven't  had  much  experi- 
ence ;  but  two  years  and  a  half  ago  when  there  was  all  that 
fuss  about  Home  Rule,  I  heard  speakers  on  both  sides,  and 
it  didn't  seem  to  me  that  either  of  them  played  the  game. 
They  weren't  a  bit  honest,  Martyn.  Their  arguments  all 
seemed  to  me  so  jolly  low  down.  They  were  just  trying  to 
make  people  wild  with  the  other  side;  they  never,  really, 
put  the  case  for  Home  Rule  at  all ;  either  of  'em." 

And  then  after  the  attentive  punctuation  of  Martyn's 
reserved  nod,  he  went  on,  "And  I  couldn't  do  that,  you 
know.  Of  course,  I  don't  know  that  I  could  speak  at  all 
from  a  platform — I  should  be  blue  with  funk,  I  expect — 
but  if  I  could,  I  should  have  to  say  what  I  felt  about  the 
thing.  I  couldn't  put  up  any  kind  of  rot  just  to  make  people 
think  that  the  other  party  were  a  deadly  set  of  blighters, 
who  couldn't  be  trusted." 

Martyn's  "Quite"  seemed  to  indicate  some  agreement 
with  that  opinion ;  but  somewhere  behind  it  lurked  the  sug- 


204,  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

gestion  of  that  expediency,  which  Dickie  was  beginning 
seriously  to  suspect. 

"Is  it  always  necessary,  Martyn,  to  pretend  something  you 
don't  feel,  in  politics  and  society  ?"  he  asked. 

Martyn  roused  himself  a  little,  to  deal  with  that. 

"You  don't  believe  in  tact  or  diplomacy  in  any  walk  of 
life,  eh,  Dick?"  he  commented  with  genial  condescension. 

"I  don't  know.  I  suppose  I  do,"  replied  Dickie.  "They 
all  say  I'm  an  awful  blunderer.  I  think  I've  got  rather  too 
fed  up  with  a  certain  kind  of  tact.  It's  so  jolly  like  letting 
things  slide." 

"That  wouldn't  be  the  kind  of  tact  you  would  be  expected 
to  exercise  in  politics  and  society,"  remarked  Martyn. 

"No.  I  can  see  that,"  remarked  Dickie.  "But  what  about 
being  absolutely  dishonest?  Is  there  any  real  difference 
between  concealing  a  truth,  and  telling  a  lie  outright  ?" 

"Certainly,  I  should  say,"  Martyn  said. 

"Even  if  what  you're  after  is  just  to  deceive  people?" 

"You  are  so  horribly  fundamental,  Dick,"  Martyn  said 
with  a  rather  whimsical  tolerance.  "Believe  me,  even  in 
ethics  there  are  more  than  two  categories.  I  quite  under- 
stand that  you  would  never  consent  to  be  a  'trimmer/  but 
surely,  you  might  make  a  few  concessions  to  the  common 
acceptances  of  nineteenth  century  manners." 

Dickie  impatiently  ruffled  his  hair.  He  could  see  dimly 
some  vision  of  an  honest  attitude  that  was  neither  self- 
assertive  nor  rude,  but  whenever  he  tried  to  focus  his  sight 
of  it,  it  began  to  take  on  some  air  of  his  family's  weak- 
ness. He  could  not  realise  how  hopelessly  he  was  still 
prejudiced  by  his  reaction  to  one,  very  limited,  set  of  quali- 
ties and  opinions. 

"But  there's  too  much  damned  'expedience'  about  it," 
he  broke  out  intolerantly.  "It's  all  done  to  push  oneself 
and  get  a  position.  That's  all  right,  no  doubt,  but  what  I 
want  chiefly  to  do  is  to — to  find  out  about  things.  I — I  want 
to  know  what's  at  the  bottom  of  things." 

"Oh !  quite,"  agreed  Martyn. 

Honesty  was  an  admirable  quality,  he  reflected;  but  it 


THE  GOD  OUT  OF  MAYFAIR  205 

might  be  overdone.  Carried  to  an  extreme,  honesty  was 
nothing  but  stupidity. 

Martyn  was  afraid  that,  after  all,  his  young  cousin  was, 
in  some  ways,  rather  stupid.  It  would  be  a  colossal  task 
to  educate  him  in  the  ways  of  the  world. 

"Shall  we  talk  it  over  again  to-morrow?"  he  asked.  "I 
don't  know  whether  it  was  our  midnight  excursion,  Dick, 
but  I'm  feeling  a  little  tired  to-night." 


But  when  they  joined  the  family  in  the  drawing-room, 
neither  Martyn  nor  Dickie  suggested  the  possibility  that 
the  scheme  might  fall  through.  Martyn,  indeed,  referred 
to  it  as  to  a  fait  accompli,  although  no  longer  with  the  same 
enthusiasm.  His  manner  was  a  trifle  absent-minded  and 
tired  that  night;  he  was  very  silent  when  the  men  of  the 
party  were  smoking  on  the  lawn  after  prayers,  and  went 
to  bed  early,  with  the  smiling  excuse  that  he  wanted  to  be 
in  his  best  form  for  the  great  function  to-morrow. 

Edward,  too,  was  very  quiet  that  evening.  He  had  had 
time  to  consider  his  quarrel  with  Dickie ;  and  now,  out  here 
under  the  stars,  filled  with  the  noblest  thoughts  and  resolu- 
tions concerning  the  great  change  that  was  coming  over  his 
life,  he  was  determined  to  set  his  house  in  order,  as  he  put 
it,  so  that  he  might  go  to  bed  with  a  clear  conscience,  and 
be  able  to  enter  the  holy  state  of  matrimony  free  from  all 
offence.  He  had  been  mentally  studying  the  familiar  mar- 
riage service  with  new  inspiration  during  the  last  half-hour, 
and  had  found  it  full  of  material  for  solemn  resolutions. 

And  when  he  and  his  father  and  brothers  were  alone,  he 
pushed  his  chair  nearer  to  Dickie's  and  said,  with  a  confused 
blush,  that  was  covered  by  the  darkness,  "Care  to  take  a 
stroll?" 

Dickie  had  been  deep  in  the  intricacies  of  a  problem 
that  sought  to  reconcile  ethics  and  current  manners,  and  he 
started  and  asked  absently, 


206  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"Where  to?" 

"Just  up  and  down  the  lawn,"  Edward  said  on  a  note 
of  faint  reproof.  It  was  incredible  to  him  that  his  brother 
could  be  considering  any  subject  other  than  their  recent 
quarrel. 

"All  serene,"  agreed  Dickie.  He  remembered,  now,  that 
he  was  in  for  one  of  the  usual  scenes  of  reconciliation; 
scenes  that  bored  and  irritated  him  by  what  he  regarded 
as  their  futility.  But  to-night  was  an  exception.  Even 
Dickie  was  prepared  to  give  Edward  a  little  special  con- 
sideration on  the  night  before  his  marriage. 

Edward  took  his .  brother's  arm  as  soon  as  they  were 
on  their  feet,  and  immediately  plunged. 

"Sorry,  old  chap,"  he  said.  "I'm  afraid  I  rather  lost  my 
temper." 

The  proper  response  to  this  generous  admission  was  an 
instant  disclaimer  and  a  personal  assumption  of  all  blame; 
from  that  one  could  go  on,  without  overt  sentiment,  to  a 
warm  feeling  of  brotherhood.  Dickie  failed,  as  usual,  to 
say  the  right  thing. 

"Oh!  I'd  forgotten  all  about  it,"  he  said  casually. 

His  intention  was  to  pass  over  the  absurd  incident  as 
quickly  as  possible,  but  Edward  inferred  an  obstinate 
grievance. 

"Well,  I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  with  a  little  stiffening  of 
manner.  "I  can't  say  more  than  that."  And  then,  with 
a  more  elder-brother  air,  he  went  on,  "We  do  try  to  make 
all  allowance  for  you,  Dick,  but — I  suppose  you  don't 
realise  it — you  are  rather  annoying  at  times." 

"I  daresay,"  Dickie  agreed  carelessly. 

"I  do  think,  you  know,"  Edward  continued  gently,  "that 
you  might  have  shown  a  little  more  enthusiasm  over  Mar- 
tyn's  offer." 

"But  I  don't  feel  enthusiastic,"  submitted  Dickie. 

"What  an  extraordinary  chap  you  are!"  commented  Ed- 
ward, and  returned  to  his  point  with  the  suggestion  that  in 
a  case  like  that  one  might  at  all  events  make  a  show  of 
gratitude. 


THE  GOD  OUT  OF  MAYFAIR  207 

"I  don't  know,"  Dickie  replied  solemnly — he  was  right  in 
the  thick  of  his  problem,  here ;  "I'm  not  at  all  sure  of  that, 
yet.  It  seems  to  me  that  all  that  pretended  gratitude  would 
have  been  rather  dishonest.  What  it  would  have  come  to 
was  that  I  should  have  been  trying  to  flatter  Martyn  and 
keep  a  hold  on  the  offer  until  I'd  made  up  my  mind  whether 
I'd  accept  it  or  not." 

Edward  was  growing  impatient.  He  hated  these  ignorant 
criticisms  of  established  things.  He  had  no  argument  to 
meet  such  attacks.  Argument  on  such  subjects  was  mani- 
festly absurd.  These  things  were  so,  and  if  a  young  fool 
like  Dickie  couldn't  jolly  well  see  it  for  himself,  he  ought 
to  be  jolly  well  kicked. 

"Oh!  rot,"  he  commented  tersely. 

"You  say  it's  rot,  but  you  won't  say  why,"  Dickie  re- 
turned. 

"It's  so  obvious,"  Edward  said. 

"Well,  tell  me  why  a  lot  of  blarney  I  didn't  mean  would 
have  been  a  better  way  of  treating  Martyn  than  being  per- 
fectly frank  with  him." 

Edward  snorted.  "It  isn't  a  question  of  blarney,"  he 
said,  trying  to  curb  his  impatience  by  a  resolute  thought  of 
his  coming  marriage.  "But  what  riles  me  is  that  when  a 
generous  offer  is  made  you,  a  confoundedly  generous  offer, 
you  turn  up  your  nose  at  it  and  say  you'd  like  to  think  it 
over  .  .  .  and  cross-examine  Martyn  on  it  ...  and  gen- 
erally behave  as  if  you'd  been  rottenly  insulted." 

"What  utter  bosh !"  laughed  Dickie.  "I  thanked  him  in 
the  drawing-room."  He  paused  for  a  moment  but  before 
his  brother  could  find  the  necessary  exaggeration  to  stigma- 
tise the  manner  of  that  thanksgiving,  he  went  on:  "No, 
it  comes  to  this;  really  it  does;  we  are  all  so  infernally 
anxious  to  please  the  person  we're  talking  to.  We're 
smarmy,  in  a  polite  sort  of  way.  I've  seen  it  with  all  of 
us, — when  we've  been  talking  to  Martyn.  It  isn't  that  we 
want  to  get  anything  out  of  him,  but  we  want  him  to  think 
what  nice  people  we  are;  and  that's  the  easiest  way  to  do 
it, — we  always  take  the  easiest  way. — If  Martyn  had  of- 


208  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

fered  you  a  perfectly  rotten  job,  you'd  probably  have  ac- 
cepted it  just  to  please  him  at  the  moment.  We're  awfully 
condescending  to  the  servants  as  long  as  they  don't  take 
any  liberties;  and  to  the  parishioners  and  everybody.  It's 
not  only  that  it  isn't,  in  one  way,  honest;  it's  so  beastly 
flabby.  We're  always  afraid  of  any  unpleasantness,  we're 
afraid  of  being  criticised.  I  know  what  it  is,  we're  afraid 
of  losing  our  good  opinion  of  ourselves." 

He  was  so  carried  away  by  the  sense  he  had  of  being 
definitely  on  the  right  track  at  last,  that  he  stopped  with 
an  absurd  idea  that  his  brother  must,  now,  agree  with 
him. 

But  long  before  the  tirade  was  finished,  Edward  had 
dismissed  it  as  futile,  so  futile,  indeed,  that  he  could  keep 
his  temper  in  face  of  it  and  reply  without  heat.  Neverthe- 
less, he  felt  the  necessity  for  sting  in  his  reply. 

"What  it  all  comes  to,"  he  remarked,  "is,  that  for  some 
incomprehensible  reason,  you  don't  seem  to  realise  the 
necessity  for  politeness." 

"Not  for  politeness  before  any  other  possible  considera 
tion,"  amended  Dickie. 

That  was  his  last  shot.  He  had  realised  that  he  was 
speaking  to  an  audience  that  could  not  understand  him. 
And  with  the  realisation  came  the  thought  that  in  society 
and  politics,  his  audiences  also  would  not  understand  him. 
He  would  be  expected  to  conform  to  their  habit  of  thought. 
He  would  have  to  appeal  to  them  through  their  prejudices, 
as  those  local  politicians  had  done.  Martyn  had  told  him 
that  he  was  "horribly  fundamental,"  and  obviously  that  was 
a  fault  and  a  handicap.  He  ought  to  be  content  to  accept 
the  tradition  and  go  on  from  that,  build  higher  on  the 
present  edifice.  And  he  would  have  done  that,  he  told 
himself,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  fact  that  whenever  he 
had  examined  the  old  building  he  had  found  it  faulty, 
even  rotten.  He  was  probably  a  blunderer  and  far  too 
radical,  but  he  was  made  that  way,  and  he  must  go  on 
with  his  examination  of  fundamentals,  difficult  as  it  was. 
There  was  that  perplexing,  perpetually  confronting  prob- 


THE  GOD  OUT  OF  MAYFAIR  209 

lem  of  religion,  for  instance,  which  was  made  responsible 
for  so  much  authority.  Adela,  too,  had  doubts;  he  must 
talk  to  Adela. 

"That  is  obviously  absurd,"  was  Edward's  final  answer 
to  his  brother's  commentary. 

"Don't  you  see,  old  chap,"  he  went  on,  more  tolerantly, 
"that  it  is  absolutely  essential  to  observe  the  convenances 
of  society?  This  bull-in-the-china-shop  business  of  yours 
doesn't  do  any  good  to  yourself  and  upsets  everybody  else. 
It's  a  waste  of  energy.  If  every  one  were  to  adopt  your 
methods,  society  couldn't  go  on.  You  remember  what 
Bishop  Magee  said:  that  if  we  all  observed  the  principles 
of  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  society  couldn't  exist  for  a 
week.  Of  course,  he  didn't  mean  that  we  shouldn't  all  try 
to  observe  them  to  the  best  of  our  ability ;  but  we  are  abso- 
lutely bound  to  conform  to  a  certain  extent  to — to  social 
usages,  you  know.  Can't  you  see  that?  Isn't  it  pretty 
obvious,  I  mean?" 

Dickie  sighed.  "To  a  certain  extent,  I  suppose,"  he  ad- 
mitted. 

He  felt  that  he  had  crossed  some  boundary  that  day. 
He  was  being  driven  into  the  necessity  for  a  partial  accep- 
tance of  standards  that  were  accepted  as  universal  by  the 
people  he  mixed  with.  Even  Bradshaw  accepted  them. 
Indeed,  the  only  exception  he  could  place  was  that  of  young 
Geach,  the  photographer;  and  his  was  not  an  example  that 
Dickie  wished  to  follow,  although  he  had  certainly  admired 
a  characteristic  boldness  in  his  general  attitude. 

This  problem  of  expedience,  like  all  the  others,  was  most 
horribly  complicated.  There  was,  apparently,  no  straight, 
simple  path.  Right  and  wrong  were  not  absolutes,  they 
were  merely  relative.  Had  not  Edward  suggested  that  even 
the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  was  relative,  and  he  most  cer- 
tainly believed  the  religion  he  preached,  with  an  unwavering 
fidelity.  .  .  . 

Edward  went  to  bed  with  a  pleasant  feeling  of  self- 
congratulation.  He  had  kept  his  temper  and  he  had  finally 
had  the  best  of  the  argument. 


210  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

He  spent  a  long  time  on  his  knees  that  night,  praying 
for  help  to  live  a  godly  life  and  make  his  marriage  a  suc- 
cess. He  prayed  with  intense  earnestness,  and  with  utter 
humiliation.  Dickie  might  have  thought  that  he  was  trying 
to  please  God  by  showing  how  perfectly  sincere  and  humble 
he  was. 

Latimer,  who  shared  his  room  at  the  inn,  thought  his 
brother  was  never  coming  to  bed.  Latimer  had  a  secret, 
shameful  opinion  that  Edward  was  a  little  overdoing  it. 


XI 

Dickie  went  off  to  the  Bank  as  usual  next  morning.  He 
had  been  offered  a  half-holiday  by  Mr.  Bell,  but  had  re- 
fused it  on  the  grounds  that  there  would  be  nothing  for 
him  to  do  at  home.  If  he  might  leave  at  a  quarter  to  twelve 
for  the  day, — it  was  a  Thursday  and  he  would  be  leaving 
at  two  in  any  case, — that  would  suit  him  quite  well. 

"Very  good,  Lynneker,"  Mr.  Bell  had  said,  and  then  had 
looked  at  him  almost  affectionately  and  added,  "I  think 
you'll  break  our  record  by  becoming  the  youngest  manager 
in  the  service." 

Dickie  had  not  replied  to  that  suggestion,  but  the  thought 
of  it  came  back  to  him  as  he  sat  in  the  big  nave  of  St. 
Peter's,  inattentively  following  the  wedding  service.  He 
ought  to  have  been  sitting  with  his  family  in  the  chancel, 
but  he  had  stayed  to  finish  his  books  and  had  not  arrived  at 
the  church  until  after  the  ceremony  had  begun. 

The  thought  of  his  possible  future  as  an  official, — 
probably,  in  time,  a  high  official, — of  the  City  &  County, 
arose  from  his  recognition  of  the  degrees  that  separated 
the  congregation  into  three  groups.  His  own  family  was 
not  included;  the  members  of  it  were  set  apart  for  this 
occasion;  they  were  the  entertainers  without  distinction  of 
class.  The  congregation  proper  began  at  the  front  of  the 
nave  in  line  with  the  brass  eagle  of  the  lectern. 

Those  foremost,  privileged  seats  were  reserved  for  the 


THE  GOD  OUT  OF  MAYFAIR 

real  aristocracy  of  Medborough  and  the  neighbourhood. 
The  Precincts  were  well  represented.  The  Bishop's  eldest 
daughter  was  there,  sitting  next  to  the  Dean  and  his  sister, 
backed  up  by  quite  an  assemblage  of  minor  dignitaries  from 
canons  in  residence  down  to  rural  archdeacons,  country  rec- 
tors* and  curates.  It  was  not  only  Lynneker  prestige  that 
brought  this  splendid  crowd;  many  of  its  members  were 
certainly  followers  of  Mr.  Leake.  Sir  Frederic  Hope,  for 
example,  the  Squire  of  Thrapley,  whose  absent-minded  man- 
ner was  often  satirically  commented  upon  by  the  Rector  of 
Halton. 

These  first  ranks,  the  elect  of  God  and  Society,  were 
separated  from  the  common  crowd  by  a  red  cord  stretched 
across  the  centre  aisle. 

Behind  them  came  the  smaller  professions  and  the  trades- 
people; spotted  by  an  occasional  governess  or  upper  ser- 
vant. Between  the  middle  classes  and  the  final  ruck  stretched 
one  stern  forbidding  trench  of  empty  seats.  And  it  was  in 
one  of  these  seats  that  Dickie  had  taken  refuge  despite  the 
urgently  whispered  protestations  of  a  verger,  who  was  proud 
of  his  competent  maintenance  of  this  admirable  arrange- 
ment for  marking  distinctions. 

"You  ought  to  be  up  in  the  chancel,  Mr.  Lynneker,"  he 
had  insisted.  "I  can  take  you  round  by  the  vestry  and 
pop  you  in  at  the  back." 

Dickie  had  smiled  and  firmly  shaken  his  head. 

His  place,  he  thought,  was  in  this  second  division.  If 
he  became  a  bank-manager,  he  would  be  the  servant  of 
this  and  the  upper  class.  They  would  be  his  customers; 
it  would  be  his  duty  to  propitiate  them ;  to  be  discreet  with- 
out rudeness;  to  profess  ignorance  of  the  private  affairs 
of  his  depositors;  to  have  a  bright,  general  knowledge  of 
local  politics  while  avoiding  any  idiosyncrasy  in  partisan- 
ship; to  have  at  command  an  automatic,  but  not  too  hack- 
neyed, set  of  cliches  concerning  the  crops  and  the  weather. 
.  .  .  He  would  be  a  tradesman,  wooing  increased  custom; 
and  his  efficiency  would  be  measured  by  his  success  in  that 
direction  so  long  as  he  was  the  head  of  a  provincial  branch. 


THESE  LYNNEKERS 

...  By  that  and  by  his  ability  to  gauge  the  solvency  of 
applicants  for  an  overdraft.  .  .  .  He  might  come  in  time 
to  use  that  single  measure  of  valuation  in  judging  his 
fellow  townsmen;  estimating  the  worth  of  every  man  by 
the  extent  of  his  resources  or  credit.  What  other  standard 
could  he  use,  after  twenty  years'  communion  with  ledgers 
and  with  the  specie  that  gave  a  meaning  to  those  inexhaust- 
ible permutations  of  the  ten  ciphers? 

Up  there  at  the  altar  rails  the  same  traffic  was  going  on. 
By  concentrating  his  attention,  he  could  distinguish  the 
low  drone  of  the  marriage  service  and  catch  an  occasional 
phrase.  Edward  and  Helen  were  making  a  bargain  before 
witnesses ;  and  Edward's  liability  was  the  onus  of  support- 
ing and  cherishing  his  wife.  He  promised  to  endow  her 
with  all  his  worldly  goods. 

And  yet  by  the  Bank's  standard  Edward  was  a  very 
small  fish.  Above  the  red  cord,  money  was  not  the  single 
touchstone.  Nevertheless  it  counted.  Old  Spentwater,  the 
timber-merchant,  had  found  his  way  into  the  upper  divi- 
sion, although  he  had  never  attempted  to  master  his  H's. 
Dickie  had  seen  him  whispering  to  Sir  Frederic  Hope,  prob- 
ably on  a  matter  of  business, — Sir  Frederic's  eldest  son 
had  been  spending  too  much  money  and  some  of  the  fine 
old  Thrapley  oaks  were  being  sacrificed, — but  old  Spent- 
water's  equality,  in  some  respects,  was  surely  acknowledged 
by  this  intimate  conversation  during  a  religious  ceremony. 
No  doubt  Sir  Frederic  was  not  too  absent-minded  to  recog- 
nise the  timber  merchant  when  he  met  him  in  the  streets 
of  Medborough. 

Dickie  found  that  his  father  was  giving  an  address  from 
the  altar  rails.  He  tried  to  listen  for  a  moment  or  two 
and  then  allowed  his  thoughts  to  wander  again.  The  Rector 
was  obviously  greatly  moved  by  the  occasion.  His  strong 
musical  voice  was  wavering.  He  would  stop  directly  to 
recover  his  self-control.  Dickie  frowned  and  looked  away. 
He  had  seen  his  father  overcome  in  this  way  in  the  Halton 
pulpit,  and  the  open  display  of  emotion  embarrassed  and, 
in  some  way,  annoyed  him.  He  knew  that  his  mother,  also, 


THE  GOD  OUT  OF  MAYFAIR  213 

greatly  disliked  to  see  his  father  cry  in  the  pulpit.  It  was 
strange  that  a  man  who  was  so  reserved  and  apparently 
unemotional  about  his  own  more  intimate  affairs,  should 
be  unable  to  restrain  this  evidence  of  weakness  in 
public.  .  .  . 

By  an  effort  of  attention  Dickie  returned  to  his  musings 
on  class  distinctions  in  relation  to  his  own  future.  Only 
one  conclusion  was  quite  clear  to  him :  he  was  in  a  net 
that  bore  a  trademark  on  every  strand.  He  was  harassed 
and  bound  and  gagged  with  this  delicate  unbreakable  stuff 
that  was  everywhere  stamped  with  the  detestable  brand  of 
"expediency."  It  had  been  woven  by  law  and  society  and 
by  countless  generations  of  his  ancestors;  and  he  could 
never  be  free  from  it.  ... 

The  organist  was  magnificently  pumping  out  the  hopping 
jubilations  of  Mendelssohn's  wedding-march.  The  bargain 
had  been  made  good  before  God,  and  now  the  parties  had 
also  completed  the  civil  contract  in  the  vestry. 

Dickie  wondered  if  Helen  were  satisfied.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  she  was  giving  altogether  too  much.  Even  if 
Edward  got  the  living  of  Thrapley — as  he  probably  would, 
now, — and  a  minor  canonry,  he  wouldn't  have  more  than 
£500  a  year.  Whereas  when  old  Leake  died,  Helen  and  her 
two  sisters  would  have  their  father's  big  private  fortune 
to  divide.  Edward  was  no  catch  apart  from  the  fact  that 
he  was  a  Lynneker.  For  some  inexplicable  reason  that 
seemed  to  count.  .  .  . 

For  an  instant  Dickie  found  himself  thinking  of  another 
aspect  of  Helen's  bargain.  Bradshaw,  decent  fellow  as  he 
was  in  most  ways,  had  made  a  disgustingly  coarse  allusion 
that  morning;  and  Dickie  had  snubbed  him  crushingly  as 
was  the  duty  of  a  Lynneker  and  a  public-school  boy.  But 
now  the  thought  returned  to  him  without  any  suggestion 
of  vulgarity.  He  dismissed  it  only  because  it  came  within 
that  group  of  ideas  which  he  had  come  to  inhibit  almost 
automatically.  .  .  . 

He  found  Martyn  when  the  crowd  came  out  of  the  vestry, 
and  walked  with  him  to  the  Vicarage. 


THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"I  want  to  ask  you,  Martyn,"  Dickie  began,  as  soon  as 
they  were  a  little  separated  from  the  rest  of  the  walking 
procession — the  distance  was  so  short  that  few  carriages 
had  been  provided — uwhat  do  you  gather  was  the  origin  of 
this  separation  of  the  classes?"  And  he  explained  the 
verger's  classification. 

Martyn  shirked  the  issue  with  a  whimsical  smile.  "The 
lot  behind  the  empty  line  of  seats,"  he  said,  in  a  confidential 
undertone,  "have  all  got  fleas,  my  dear  old  chap." 

But  later  Dickie  returned  to  that  little  evasive  jest  as 
to  some  shadow  of  the  analogy  he  was  seeking.  The  red 
cord  was  a  mere  pretext,  marking  an  imaginary  division; 
but  as  things  were,  it  was,  indeed,  necessary  to  defend 
oneself  by  a  gulf  of  empty  pews  against  contact  with  the 
lowest  grades. 

They  had  fleas. 

Once  or  twice  during  the  wedding  breakfast,  Dickie 
furtively  scratched  himself. 


XII 

The  speeches  after  the  "breakfast"  were  reduced  to  a 
minimum.  Edward  and  Helen  had  to  catch  the  2.45  train 
at  the  London  &  North-Western  Station.  They  were  going 
to  the  Lakes  for  their  honeymoon.  Helen,  indeed,  dis- 
appeared from  the  table  before  the  speeches  were  finished. 

When  Dickie  saw  her  again,  she  was  wearing  a  close- 
fitting  grey  coat  and  skirt.  He  had  thought  she  looked  pretty 
in  white  satin,  particularly  in  church  when  her  contours 
had  been  softened  by  the  fall  of  her  veil.  Now,  she  looked  a 
little  coarse,  and  extraordinarily  solid.  The  bold  curves 
of  her  figure  might  have  been  modelled  in  wood.  And,  once, 
in  the  hall,  Dickie  saw  her  put  both  hands  to  her  waist 
and  make  a  movement  as  if  she  were  twisting  her  body 
within  a  tightly  confining  cage.  He  thought  that  that  tweed 
dress  must  be  very  hot  on  a  July  afternoon.  .  .  . 

Edward  had  borne  himself  with  a  kind  of  earnest  dignity 


THE  GOD  OUT  OF  MAYFAIR 

during  the  ceremony  and  the  ordeal  of  the  "breakfast."  He 
had  caught,  temporarily,  something  of  Martyn's  air  of  cool 
self-assurance.  But  just  at  the  last  Dickie  had  a  sight  of 
some  feeling  that  his  brother  had,  perhaps,  concealed  under 
his  assumption  of  gravity. 

Helen  was  already  seated  in  the  brougham,  and  Edward 
stood  hesitating,  alone  for  one  moment,  between  her  and 
the  group  of  their  relations  who  were  crowded  upon  the 
half-dozen  wide  steps  that  led  up  to  the  vicarage  front  door. 

His  wife  put  out  her  hand  to  him  and  touched  his  arm 
a  little  impatiently. 

"Oh !  come  along,  Ted,  we  shall  certainly  miss  that  train," 
she  said,  and  her  tone  carried  the  suggestion  of  a  com- 
mand. 

Dickie  saw  a  flicker  of  irritation  cross  his  brother's 
face;  saw  him  withdraw  his  arm  from  his  wife's  touch 
with  a  compromised  impatience  that  in  some  way  mingled 
apology  with  reproof.  He  was  smiling  again  as  he  closed 
the  door  of  the  brougham,  but  his  attitude  and  expression 
still  seemed  to  convey  a  faint  hint  of  reluctance. 

Dickie  wondered  if  Edward  would  have  evaded  that 
marriage  if  he  had  not  been  tied  by  his  devotion  to  ex- 
pediency. What  would  come  of  it  ?  Contentment,  a  relative 
success,  the  respect  of  just  the  group  of  people  represented 
by  these  wedding  guests ;  placidity  among  familiar  interests ; 
a  sense  of  competence  within  the  tiny  circle  of  kindred 
attainment — any  form  of  mild  happiness ;  but  no  new  knowl- 
edge, no  struggle,  no  growth. 

Would  there  be  children?  Quite  absurdly,  it  seemed  to 
Dickie  impossible  that  Edward  should  have  children.  .  .  . 

It  appeared  that  Martyn  was  not  returning  to  the  Rectory. 
Dickie  had  left  the  house  before  the  arrangement  had  been 
made.  Some  unexpected  call  had  summoned  his  cousin 
to  town,  and  he  had  brought  his  dressing  case  in  with  him 
and  left  it  at  the  Great  Northern  Station. 

Dickie  walked  down  with  him  to  catch  the  3.30. 

"You  must  let  me  hear  from  you  occasionally,"  Martyn 


216  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

said,  as  they  went  through  the  town.  "That  offer  of  mine 
is  still  open,  you  know.  Possibly  next  spring  .  .  ." 

"If  I  needn't  make  up  my  mind  for  a  month  or  two," 
Dickie  submitted. 

"Quite,  quite;  think  it  well  over,  by  all  means,"  Mar- 
tyn  agreed  quickly. 

"I'm  tremendously  grateful  to  you,  you  know,"  Dickie 
went  on.  "I  hope  you  won't  think  I've  been  frightfully 
casual  about  it  all.  But  it  is  an  important  thing  to  decide 
about,  isn't  it?  I  mean  that  I  should  have  to  stick  to  it  if 
I  took  it  on." 

Martyn  nodded  thoughtfully.  "Yes,  I  imagine  you  would 
stick  to  anything  you  took  up/'  he  said. 

They  had  to  run  when  they  came  to  the  station  approach, 
and  Dickie  rescued  his  cousin's  bag  from  the  cloak-room 
while  Martyn  took  his  ticket. 

Dickie's  last  sight  of  Martyn  was  of  a  gravely  approving 
smile  seen  through  the  window  of  a  first-class  smoking 
carriage;  a  smile  that  seemed  to  express  the  spirit  of  a 
well-mannered  superficial  agreement  with  any  suggestion 
that  Dickie  might  care  to  offer.  Even  Martyn's  smile  said 
"Quite."  .  .  . 

A  faint  air  of  exhaustion  hung  about  the  Rectory  that 
evening,  and  Mrs.  Lynneker  gave  a  voice  to  the  general 
spirit  of  reaction  when,  after  supper,  the  arresting  note  of 
the  tenor  bell  gave  notice  that  a  peal  was  to  be  rung  in 
honour  of  Edward's  marriage. 

"Oh  !  dear,  we're  not  going  to  have  those  dreadful  bells  ?" 
she  expostulated. 

Eleanor  looked  up  with  cold  reproof.  "For  Edward !" 
was  her  staid  reminder  of  the  eternal  fitness  of  weddings 
and  chimes. 

Her  mother  sighed  and  puckered  her  forehead.  "They're 
so — so  desolating,"  she  explained,  "and  after  every  one  is 
gone  .  .  ." 

Aunt  Mary,  the  one  remaining  visitor,  smiled,  and  her 
bright  eyes  twinkled  as  she  said,  "Rejoice  with  them  that 
do  rejoice,  Catherine.  Think  of  Edward  and  Helen !" 


THE  GOD  OUT  OF  MAYFAIR  217 

"Yes,  they  won't  be  able  to  hear  the  bells  in  Westmore- 
land," returned  Mrs.  Lynneker  whimsically,  as  if  that  alone 
were  sufficient  to  ensure  the  success  of  the  honeymoon. 

"Oh !  dear,  I  agree  with  mother,"  Adela  said,  getting  to 
her  feet  as  the  peal  broke  out.  "I  simply  feel  as  if  I  couldn't 
stand  them  to-night." 

"What  nonsense!"  murmured  Eleanor,  calmly  absorbed 
in  her  sewing. 

"All  very  well  for  you,"  retorted  Adela.  "You  like 
making  yourself  miserable." 

"Do  I?"  commented  Eleanor,  quietly,  as  her  sister  left 
the  room. 

Dickie  got  up  and  followed  her.  He  had  been  waiting  for 
an  opportunity  to  be  alone  with  her.  He  wanted  to  hear 
how  she  had  come  to  share  his  doubts  with  regard  to  the 
Divine  institution  of  the  English  Church. 

"Shall  we  go  for  a  walk?"  he  asked,  as  he  came  up  with 
her  in  the  hall. 

"Oh!  not  to-night,  Dickie,"  she  said  quickly.  "I— I 
want  to  be  alone." 

"All  serene,"  he  agreed  imperturbably.  "But  I  should 
like  to  have  a  talk  with  you  sometime  about  what  you  said 
the  other  night." 

"Yes,  of  course,  so  should  I,"  Adela  returned.  "Fright- 
fully. But  I'm  not  a  bit  in  the  mood,  now.  You  don't  think 
me  a  pig,  do  you?" 

"Great  Scott,  no,"  Dickie  said.  "I  shall  go  up  and  read 
a  bit  before  prayers." 

He  came  down  at  twenty  to  ten,  and  found  that  the 
whole  party  was  still  waiting  for  Adela. 

"She  has  no  business  to  go  out  alone  at  this  time  of 
night,"  the  Rector  was  saying  irritably. 

"She  can't  have  gone  further  than  the  garden,"  urged 
Mrs.  Lynneker. 

They  all  turned  to  Dickie  when  he  came  in.  "Do  you 
know  where  your  sister  is?"  his  father  asked  sharply. 

"She  went  out,  I  think,"  Dickie  said.  "I've  been  up- 
stairs, reading.  Shall  I  go  and  find  her?" 


218  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"I  wish  you  would,"  the  Rector  replied. 

But  as  Dickie  reached  the  hall,  Adela  came  in  at  the  front 
door.  Her  face  was  flushed  and  she  put  up  her  hands  and 
pressed  them  to  her  cheeks. 

"Goodness,  Dickie,  have  they  had  prayers  ?"  she  asked. 

"They're  waiting  for  you,"  he  told  her.  "What  on  earth 
have  you  been  doing?" 

"I've  been  up  at  the  top  of  the  garden,"  she  said.  "I 
think  I  must  have  gone  to  sleep  when  the  bells  stopped.  I 
say,  Dickie,  do  I  look  very  awful?" 

"A  bit  flushed,"  he  admitted,  "and  you  look  as  if  you'd 
been  sitting  on  the  grass.  You're  all  over  bits." 

"I  have,"  she  said,  and  bent  down  and  began  eagerly 
to  shake  and  brush  the  little  brown  particles  from  her 
skirt. 

"I  say,  buck  up,"  Dickie  advised  her.  "The  pater  is  fear- 
fully ratty,  now." 

Dickie  thought  she  carried  it  off  very  well  when  she  came 
into  the  drawing-room.  "I've  been  asleep  under  the  elm 
at  the  top  of  the  garden,"  she  announced,  "dreaming  of 
fairies.  So  sorry." 

She  had  a  new  air  of  self-confidence,  as  if  she  did  not 
care,  after  all,  what  her  father  and  mother  and  Eleanor 
thought  of  her. 

"How  flushed  you  are !"  was  Eleanor's  quiet  comment. 

The  Rector  seemed  almost  to  have  forgotten  his  irrita- 
tion. 

"Well,  well,  ring  the  bell,  Latimer,"  he  said.  "I'm  sure 
every  one  must  be  very  tired." 


XI 
ADELA 


DICKIE'S  talk  with  Adela  developed  spontaneously  the 
following  Sunday  afternoon;  after  he  had  been  "col- 
lared," as  he  put  it,  by  Aunt  Mary  and  taken  into  the  draw- 
ing-room for  a  serious  hour's  conversation  and  Bible  read- 
ing, while  the  rest  of  the  family  were  at  Sunday-school. 

He  came  out,  restless  and  perplexed,  to  find  Adela  in  a 
deck-chair  under  the  big  apple-tree  on  the  back  lawn.  He 
went  to  her  at  once  and  sat  down  on  the  grass  at  her  feet. 
He  was  immensely  relieved,  just  then,  to  find  an  oppor- 
tunity for  some  expression  of  his  own  attitude. 

"Look  here,  Adela,"  he  began  at  once,  "I  must  talk 
this  out  with  you.  I've  been  with  Aunt  Mary  for  an  hour, 
and  I  feel  like  bursting.  She's  a  jolly  old  sport  in  most 
ways,  and  I  like  her  awfully;  but  when  you  get  up  against 
her  religion  she's  like  ...  I  don't  know  .  .  .  she's  like 
that  donkey  we  used  to  have  when  we  were  kids.  Do  you 
remember  it?" 

Adela  said  she  remembered  it  very  well.  "Mother  used 
to  say  it  suffered  from  an  idee  fixe,"  she  reminded  him. 

Dickie  leaned  back  on  the  prop  of  his  two  hands  and 
stared  up  into  the  apple-tree.  "M — yes,"  he  said.  "It  isn't, 
perhaps,  a  very  good  example.  There's  a  lot  more  than 
that  in  this  religious  business." 

Adela  shut  the  bound  volume  of  "The  Quiver"  that  she 
had  been  reading  and  folded  her  hands  on  it.  "What  do 
you  mean,  exactly,  Dick  ?"  she  asked.  "How  much  do  you 
believe?" 

219 


220  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"Don't  know  that  I  believe  anything,"  Dickie  said  with 
an  air  of  starting  free  from  prejudice. 

"But  you  believe  in  God?"  Adela  returned  with  immense 
emphasis  on  her  principal  word. 

"Which  one?"  Dickie  asked,  casually. 

"But  there  is  only  One,"  gasped  Adela. 

"Dozens,"  was  Dickie's  caustic  reply. 

"But  .  .  ." 

"Well,  Allah,  for  example." 

"Oh!  I  see  what  you  mean,"  Adela's  tone  expressed  re- 
lief. "But  that's  only  another  Name." 

"D'you  think  Aunt  Mary  would  admit  that?"  asked 
Dickie.  "Or  the  pater,  or  the  mater,  or  Edward,  or  any 
of  them  ?  If  they  believe  that  why  are  they  always  collect- 
ing for  the  Church  Missionary?  No,  it's  no  bally  good, 
Adela;  they  say  that  the  Mohammedan  god  is  all  a  fraud, 
that  he  doesn't  exist;  and  the  Mohammedans  say 
the  same  thing  about  ours.  There  isn't  any  almighty  cer- 
tainty that  we're  right  any  more  than  that  they  are.  It 
just  depends  which  god  you're  brought  up  on.  It  has 
been  so  jolly  well  drummed  into  us  from  the  cradle  that 
we  take  everything  for  granted.  If  you'd  been  brought 
up  by  Mohammedans,  you'd  be  dead  certain  that  you  hadn't 
got  a  soul." 

Adela  frowned.  "Well,  then,  what  about  the  Bible?"  she 
asked. 

"What  about  the  Koran?" 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  that,"  Adela  returned  im- 
patiently. "But  surely  the  Bible's  true";  she  hesitated  and 
then  gave  away  her  own  case  by  adding :  "Most  of  it,  any- 
way." 

"Some  of  it's  true,  in  a  sense,"  Dickie  said.  "The  Old 
Testament  is  a  kind  of  garbled,  romantic  history  of  the 
Hebrews,  you  know.  And  they  weren't  much  to  boast 
about  in  the  moral  line,  according  to  our  ideas."  He  picked 
up  a  small  green  apple  from  the  grass  and  split  it  open 
with  his  thumb  nail.  "Maggot,"  he  remarked,  and  threw 
the  pieces  away.  Then  he  looked  up  at  the  intent,  rather 


ADELA 

frightened  face  of  his  sister  and  went  on,  "I've  got  a  sort 
of  notion  that  the  maggot  in  the  Christian  religion  was 
theology,  Addles." 

She  could  not  grapple  with  that.  In  this  thing  she 
was  more  fundamental  than  Dickie,  himself.  He  had  read, 
discursively  but  intelligently,  and  had  come  past  the  facts 
to  the  need  for  a  more  inclusive  theory. 

"But  the  New  Testament  ?"  she  said. 

"There's  an  awful  lot  of  fake  in  it,"  Dickie  explained. 
"The  first  of  the  gospels  was  probably  St.  Mark's,  written 
a  long  time  after  Christ  died,  of  course,  and  there's  sup- 
posed to  have  been  an  earlier  book  called  the  Logia,  made 
up  of  Christ's  sayings."  He  paused  and  decided  to  drop 
that  as  too  technical.  "But  the  point  is,  you  see,  old  girl," 
he  summarised,  "that  the  Bible,  all  of  it,  is  only  a  collec- 
tion of  men's  writings,  just  like  any  other  collection,  in 
some  ways.  There's  a  lot  of  good  stuff  in  it,  of  course ;  but 
so  there  is  in  the  Koran  and  the  Vedas — in  fact,  there's 
an  awful  lot  in  Buddhism  that's  tremendously  convincing," 
he  concluded,  glancing  a  little  wistfully  at  the  promise  of 
that  fascinating  by-path. 

Adela  sat  quite  still  and  stared  out  through  the  reality 
of  the  sunlit  garden;  trying  to  make  a  new  picture  of  a 
past  that  had  never  existed  in  the  form  she  had  always 
imagined.  She  saw  the  story  of  the  New  Testament  as 
a  series  of  steel  engravings,  and  more  particularly  her  at- 
tention was  focussed  on  the  "Descent  from  the  Cross,"  and 
"Christ  coming  down  from  the  Praetorium,"  framed  copies 
of  which  hung  in  the  Rectory  dining-room. 

"But  Christ  must  have  lived,"  she  said,  and  saw  quite 
distinctly  the  presentation  of  an  effeminate  Greek  face  with 
a  thin  beard,  crowned  by  a  symmetrically  wrought  coronet 
of  thorn  twigs. 

"Quite  probably,"  Dickie  said.  "Doesn't  follow  that  he 
was  the  Son  of  God,  though." 

"But,  Dickie,"  Adela  persisted;  "where  do  you  get  all 
this  from?" 

"Various  sources,"  he  told  her.    "I've  got  the  run  of  the 


222  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

Cathedral  Library,  you  know.  They  keep  it  up  better  than 
you'd  think,  but  hardly  any  one  uses  it,  except  for  sermons. 
And  I've  picked  up  a  lot  of  books  second-hand.  There's 
a  chap  called  Ernest  Renan,  for  instance.  I've  got  four 
of  his  books  upstairs, — they're  in  French,  of  course." 

"Can  you  read  French?"  Adela  asked,  suddenly  diverted 
by  the  interest  of  this  unexpected  fact. 

"Fairly  well,"  Dickie  admitted.  "Bell  told  me  that  French 
and  German  might  be  useful,  and  I've  swatted  at  'em — 
intermittently." 

"But  when  do  you  get  time  to  read  all  these  things?" 
Adela's  note  of  wonder  grew  more  pronounced. 

"I  always  get  a  couple  of  hours  before  breakfast,  you 
know,"  Dickie  said.  "I've  practically  given  up  going  down 
to  the  river,  this  year,  and  I  try  to  make  up  another  three 
hours  at  night.  You  can  do  a  lot  with  five  hours  a  day  if 
you  stick  to  it." 

"But  don't  you  get  very  tired  ?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "Not  a  bit,"  he  said.  "I've  won- 
dered sometimes  whether  I  can  really  count  it  as  work; 
it'll  all  so  interesting.  I  want  to  go  on  all  the  time,  you 
see.  It's  often  an  effort  to  go  to  bed  at  twelve  o'clock;  only 
I've  got  an  idea  that  I  shan't  be  fresh  at  the  Bank  next  day, 
if  I  don't." 

"And  you  get  up  at  six?" 

"I  always  wake  then,"  he  said,  as  if  that  explained  every- 
thing. 

Adela  gave  the  problem  her  earnest  attention  for  a  mo- 
ment before  she  confessed  her  heredity  and  training  by 
the  announcement,  "Of  course,  you'll  break  down  if  you 
go  on  like  that.  Nobody  could  stand  it."  It  was  certainly 
within  her  experience  that  no  Lynneker  could  stand  it. 

"Well,  I  don't  feel  like  it,  at  present,"  Dickie  said,  care- 
lessly. "Sometimes  at  school,  I  used  to  think  there  was 
something  wrong  with  me.  I  used  to  forget  everything 
quite  suddenly,  in  class.  But  I  never  get  like  that,  now.  It 
seems  to  make  such  a  difference  being  interested  in  things. 
And  I  was  an  awful  young  ass  when  I  was  at  Oakstone.  I 


ADELA 

didn't  understand — Latin  and  Greek  particularly.  They're 
tremendously  useful,  really;  but  at  school  they  seemed  awful 
tosh,  I  don't  know  why — unless  it  was  because  I  was  such 
a  blithering  young  idiot."  He  paused  to  reflect  on  that  for 
a  moment  and  then  put  it  away  as  not  worthy  of  further 
consideration. 

"We  seem  to  have  got  off  the  point  a  bit,"  he  went  on. 
"Let's  go  back  to  the  last  remark  but  one.  You  haven't  ex- 
plained a  bit  yet,  you  know,  Adela,  what  it  is  exactly  you 
do  or  don't  believe  in." 

Adela  recalled  her  attention  to  the  problem  of  her  religious 
beliefs  by  an  effort.  She  had  been  greatly  interested  by 
the  discovery  of  her  brother's  knowledge  and  powers  of  ap- 
plication. She  was  aware  that  he  was  supposed  to  be 
working  in  the  evenings,  but  she  had  instinctively  discounted 
the  amount  of  reading  he  might  be  getting  through  at  those 
times.  She  knew  her  family,  and  had  taken  them  as  the 
general  standard  of  humanity.  Here  and  there  she  had 
read  of  exceptional  individuals  with  wonderful  powers  of 
mind;  the  kind  of  people,  as  she  classified  them,  who  be- 
came Bishops,  or  Premiers,  or  something.  But  she  had  dis- 
tantly regarded  these  exceptions  to  the  rule  of  humanity  as 
creatures  set  apart;  they  were  celebrities,  not  ordinary 
human  beings.  She  could  not  picture  them  talking  or  think- 
ing as  she  and  her  family  talked  or  thought.  And  it  was  a 
shock  to  her  to  find  her  own  intimate  brother  was  capable 
of  keeping  fit  on  six  hours'  sleep  and  thirteen  or  fourteen 
hours'  work  out  of  the  twenty-four.  The  study  of  this 
phenomenon  was  a  personal  and  fascinating  adventure ;  and 
she  came  back  to  the  subject  they  had  set  out  to  discuss 
with  the  bored  patience  of  a  child  brought  in  to  continue  its 
dull,  mechanical  lessons. 

"I  really  hardly  know,"  she  said,  knitting  her  forehead, 
and  clasping  her  hands  with  an  expression  and  gesture 
reminiscent  of  the  school-room:  "I've  thought  that  some 
of  it  couldn't  be  true.  Eternal  punishment  and  things 
like  that." 

"Yes,  that  seemed  pretty  obvious  to  me,"  Dickie  agreed. 


THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"But  then,  surely,  you've  got  to  accept  the  whole  boiling  or 
nothing  at  all.  If  you  once  question  a  single  point,  you 
throw  doubt  on  all  the  others.  They  all  rest  on  the  same 
authority.  If  you  chuck  one,  you  may  as  well  chuck  the 
rest.  You've  asserted  your  .  .  .  well,  your  ability  to  judge." 

"I  suppose  you  have,"  Adela  admitted.  "But  I  do  be- 
lieve in  God,  Dickie.  I  feel  sure  there  must  be  a  God." 

"Quite  likely,"  returned  Dickie.  "The  point  is,  do  you 
believe  in  the  Divinity  of  Christ  ?" 

Adela  gave  that  the  consideration  she  would  have  given 
to  a  question  in  an  examination  paper.  "Yes,  I  think  I 
do,"  she  said  judicially. 

"Why?" 

She  shook  her  head,  a  little  embarrassed  to  confess  that 
her  lesson  was  not  well  learnt.  "I  feel  like  that,"  she 
said. 

"You  ought  to  read  Kenan's  'Life  of  Jesus/"  Dickie 
advised  her.  "You  can  read  French,  can't  you?" 

She  blushed  faintly  as  she  said,  "Oh !  yes,  of  course.  Will 
you  lend  it  to  me?  I  won't  let  any  one  else  see  it." 

In  her  mind  she  was  making  a  strenuous  determination 
to  "rub  up"  her  French  with  the  aid  of  a  dictionary,  and 
"really  to  work  hard  at  that  book  of  Dickie's."  She  wanted 
to  show  him  that  she,  too,  was  capable  of  mental  applica- 
tion. She  saw  that  her  task  would  be  a  very  difficult  one 
— she  had  all  the  flowers  to  see  to,  she  had  promised  to 
sew  the  new  cretonne  covers  for  the  drawing-room  chairs, 
a  certain  amount  of  time  must  be  given  to  the  parish ;  there 
was  her  organ  and  piano  practice  to  be  kept  up,  and  quite 
a  heap  of  other  things  that  could  not  be  neglected.  It 
seemed  so  much  easier,  somehow,  for  Dickie.  But  in 
spite  of  everything  she  made  a  solemn  vow  that  she  would 
find,  at  least,  .  .  .  two  hours,  yes,  two  hours  a  day  for 
Renan. 

"I'll  begin  after  tea,"  she  said;  and  then:  "Don't  let's 
talk  about  it  any  more,  now.  Wait  till  I've  read  that  book. 
I  wish  you'd  tell  me  what  you  want  to  be,  Dickie.  I  should 
think  you  could  easily  become  a  bishop,  if  you  wanted  to." 


ADELA 

She  imagined  that  Dickie  must  necessarily  be  eager  to 
discuss  such  a  delightfully  personal  subject. 

But  he  looked  a  trifle  disappointed  and  said :  "I  don't 
know,  yet,  what  I'm  going  to  do  when  I  leave  the  Bank. 
I'm  not  sure  that  I  shan't  stick  on  there  for  a  bit.  In  any 
case,  old  girl,  you  may  take  it  as  a  dead  certainty  that  I 
shan't  be  a  bishop." 

He  had  hoped  for  some  kind  of  a  discussion  that  would 
give  him  a  new  point  of  view,  and  had  found  himself  in 
the  position  of  a  tutor,  giving  instruction  and  setting  his 
pupil  a  task.  That  did  not  help  him.  But  no  one  ever 
had  materially  helped  him  unless  it  were  Mr.  Bell  in  the 
technicalities  of  banking,  and  already  Mr.  Bell  was  begin- 
ning, indirectly,  to  consult  his  junior's  opinion.  Dickie 
was  consciously  aware  at  that  minute  of  a  certain  isolation 
he  had  hitherto  hardly  noticed.  He  had  no  contempt  for 
other  people's  opinions,  but  they  continually  failed  to  pro- 
vide him  with  the  kind  of  knowledge  he  was  more  par- 
ticularly seeking  at  that  time.  The  fact  of  that  failure  was 
no  sort  of  discouragement  to  him,  but  he  made  a  mental 
note  of  it  as  a  matter  that  might  be  worth  his  attention 
at  some  future  time.  Obviously  it  had  a  bearing  on  his 
relation  to  society  in  general.  It  occurred  to  him  that  he 
might  be  wanting  in  some  quality  of  perception.  .  .  . 

"But,  Dickie,"  Adela  was  saying  in  a  beseeching  tone, 
"I'm  sure  you  could  do  something  better  than  that  rotten 
old  Bank." 


ii 

Every  one  remembered  afterwards  that  Adela  had  been 
"a  little  odd," — the  phrase  was  Eleanor's, — during  the  three 
weeks  that  immediately  followed  Edward's  marriage.  She 
had  been  gentler,  less  selfish  and  more  diligent.  She  had 
even  taken  to  getting  up  at  seven  o'clock  in  order  to  go 
over  to  the  church  and  practise  the  organ  before  breakfast. 
Such  outstanding  endeavours  as  that  were  remarked  at 


THESE  LYNNEKERS 

the  time,  the  general  attitude  of  being  "a  little  odd,"  was 
recalled  later. 

Dickie,  wondering  a  little,  believed  that  the  change  he 
noticed  in  his  sister  was  due  to  the  absorption  she  was  now 
showing  in  the  pursuit  of  new  knowledge.  She  was  cer- 
tainly persistent,  if  slow,  in  her  study  of  Renan ;  and  when 
opportunity  offered  and  they  could  be  safely  alone,  he  talked 
to  her,  expounding  rather  than  arguing  the  engaging  topic ; 
and  occasionally  he  read  Renan  aloud  to  her,  translating 
roughly  as  he  read. 

"It's  good  practice  for  me,"  he  explained,  and  Adela, 
comparing  her  own  halting  efforts  with  his,  was  moved  to 
fresh  wonder  at  the  ease  of  his  accomplishment. 

"You  read  it  like  English,  Dickie,"  she  said,  paying  him 
the  sincerest  compliment  she  could  find. 

Dickie  pushed  that  away  as  waste  of  time.  "Oh!  that's 
easy  enough,"  he  said.  "But,  now,  doesn't  this  make  the 
story  of  Christ  more  understandable?  Just  as  a  possible 
story,  I  mean,  and  not  as  a  sort  of  impossible  miracle  that 
couldn't  happen  again?" 

Adela  admitted  that  she  was  gaining  admiration  for 
Christ  as  a  human  teacher,  even  as  she  began  to  doubt  the 
fable  of  His  being  the  only  Son  of  God. 

But,  chiefly,  she  was  becoming  more  and  more  impressed 
with  the  qualities  of  her  younger  brother;  although  even 
in  that  period  of  docility  she  had  her  moments  of  reaction. 

There  was,  for  example,  a  certain  Thursday  afternoon 
when  Dickie  came  home  a  little  before  three  o'clock  and 
she  persuaded  him  to  walk  up  with  her  to  the  Hanglands. 
She  had  packed  bread  and  butter  and  cake  and  a  bottle  of 
milk  in  a  basket,  and  used  that  as  an  argument. 

"You  needn't  work  for  one  afternoon,"  she  said.  "It'll 
do  you  good  to  have  a  walk,  and  besides,  I  want  to  get  out. 
I  feel  sometimes  as  if  I  want  more  air,"  she  explained  and 
breathed  deeply  as  if  the  air  of  the  Rectory  garden  was 
too  thin  and  exhausted  for  her  needs. 

"All  serene,  old  girl,"  Dickie  agreed. 

She  breathed  deep  again  when  they  were  up  on  the 


ADELA  227 

wide  expanses  of  the  Common,  but  this  time  with  an 
expression  of  relief. 

"Don't  you  feel  stifled  at  home  sometimes?"  she  asked. 

"Is  anything  up?    Has  there  been  a  row?"  Dickie  said. 

She  shook  her  head  passionately.  "Oh !  no,"  she  returned 
with  fervour.  "I  wish  there  had." 

Dickie  was  puzzled,  but  not  unsympathetic.  "What's 
bothering  you?"  he  asked.  "Have  we  been  talking  too 
much  religious  history?  Would  you  like  to  give  it  a  rest 
for  a  bit?" 

"No,  it  isn't  that,"  she  said,  and  threw  back  her  head 
and  made  a  gesture  with  her  hands  as  if  she  were  pushing 
away  a  whole  ring  of  imaginary  obstacles.  "No,  I  like  our 
talks  about  these  things.  They  seem  to  be  a  way  out." 

"Out  of  what?"  Dickie  put  in. 

"Everything,"  she  said  vaguely.  "Oh!  everything  at 
home  seems  so  small  and  so  not  worth  while.  It's  always 
the  same,  every  day.  And  since  we've  begun  to  discuss 
things,  it  all  seems  so  futile — prayers  and  church  and  all 
that — even  my  organ  practice.  I  feel  sometimes  as  if  I 
must  get  up  and  shout  at  them  that  it's  all  bosh,  that  it  isn't 
true." 

"Hm!"  commented  Dickie  thoughtfully,  and  then,  after 
a  moment's  silence,  he  said :  "It  wouldn't  be  the  least  use, 
you  know,  Addles." 

"I  know  it  wouldn't,"  she  said.  "Only  it  would  be  such 
a  relief.  Just  to  do  it  and  get  it  over." 

"I  wouldn't  if  I  were  you,"  Dickie. advised  her.  "The 
mater  and  pater  would  be  frightfully  hurt.  I've  thought  of 
it,  too.  I  was  pretty  near  it  the  night  before  Edward  was 
married.  But — it  seems  a  rum  thing  to  say — I'm  not  sure 
whether  in  a  thing  like  that  it's  necessarily  good  to  be 
honest.  I  know  it's  pretty  rotten  to  go  on  shamming  that 
one  believes  in  their  religion,  but  it  would  only  be  for  one's 
own  satisfaction  if  one  went  and  said  one  didn't  believe  in 
the  church  and  all  that.  It  really  would  be  an  awful  blow 
to  the  pater  and  mater  and  it  couldn't  possibly  do  them 
any  good,  could  it?" 


228  m  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"Of  course  not,"  Adela  said.  "I  didn't  actually  mean 
that  I  should  ever  do  it.  I  only  said  I  felt  like  it,  some- 
times. Good  gracious!  Life  wouldn't  be  worth  living 
afterwards.  Eleanor  would  never  give  me  a  moment's 
peace;  I  should  be  prayed  over  and  talked  to  from  morn- 
ing to  night." 

"Perhaps  we'd  better  give  Renan  a  rest,"  decided  Dickie. 

"But  I  don't  want  to,"  Adela  persisted.  .  .  . 

Later  in  the  afternoon,  when  they  had  had  their  picnic 
and  were  sitting  in  the  woods,  she  displayed  another  mood. 

"I  suppose  I  am  very  selfish,"  she  began  suddenly. 

"Every  one  is  more  or  less,  I  suppose,"  Dickie  said,  help- 
fully. 

"Yes,  but  I'm  more  and  you're  less'/  she  confessed 
meekly.  "How  do  you  do  it,  Dickie?" 

"Didn't  know  I  did,"  he  said.    "Never  think  about  it." 

"You  are  an  extraordinary  person,"  Adela  decided,  after 
a  thoughtful  pause. 

Dickie  wasn't  interested  in  that  pronouncement.  "What 
makes  you  think  you're  particularly  selfish?"  he  asked.  "I 
hadn't  noticed  it." 

She  gave  him  particulars,  detailing  a  host  of  little  omis- 
sions and  personal  indulgences;  and  the  fluency  of  her 
catalogue  proved  her  self-examination  must  have  been  ex- 
ceedingly rigorous  and  recent,  even  if  she  had  not  concluded 
by  saying  with  a  sigh :  "But  I  have  tried  to  be  better 
lately.  I  believe  even  Eleanor  has  noticed  it." 

"Why  lately?"  Dickie  asked. 

She  blushed  and  put  her  hands  up  to  her  face.  "I  think 
our  talks  have  made  a  difference,"  she  said,  and  then  hesi- 
tated and  went  on :  "I've  been  thinking  more  about  those 
things;  and  .  .  .  and,  Dickie,  I  want  to  ask  you  .  .  ." 

"Well?" 

"Would  you  forgive  me  whatever  I  did?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  growing  astonishment.  "Good 
Lord,  yes,"  he  returned.  "What  are  you  trying  to  get  at  ?" 

"I  think  I  should  always  come  to  you  if  I  were  in  a  real 
mess,"  she  said. 


ADELA 

"Have  you  been  running  up  bills  or  something?"  he 
asked. 

"No!  Oh!  no;  it's  nothing,"  she  said.  "I  was  only 
thinking  if  there  was  anything  that  could  ever  put  you 
against  me.  There  isn't,  is  there?" 

"I  can't  imagine  anything,"  he  told  her. 

She  wanted  to  discuss  Renan  again  on  the  way  home, 
but  Dickie  refused.  "You've  had  enough  of  that  for  a 
bit,"  he  said,  and  told  her  stories  of  Bradshaw's  peculiari- 
ties instead.  "He's  an  extraordinary  chap,  if  you  like," 
was  Dickie's  summary.  "I've  told  him  he'd  make  no  end 
of  money  if  he  went  into  the  entertaining  business,  like 
Corney  Grain,  you  know;  but  he's  got  the  funniest  kind 
of  scruples  about  not  using  his  appearance  to  make  people 
laugh.  I  think  he's  really  rather  sensitive  about  it,  at  bot- 
tom; but  when  he's  talking  seriously  to  me,  he  says  that 
he  feels  it's  a  sort  of  reflection  on  God  to  make  fun  of  him- 
self. He  says  God  made  him  that  way  and  he  ought  not 
to  criticise  Him." 

Adela  had  quite  recovered  her  usual  spirits  by  the  time 
they  came  to  the  big  iron  gates  of  the  Rectory  garden. 


in 

Since  Latimer  had  come  to  a  recognition  of  the  observ- 
ances necessary  to  one  who  was  approaching  deacon's 
orders,  the  Rector  had  had  little  cause  for  complaint  with 
regard  to  the  laxity  of  his  children's  attendance  at  morn- 
ing prayers.  Eleanor  had  always  been  punctual  and  Dickie 
had  never  had  any  excuse  for  being  late — every  one  knew 
that  he  was  up  and  dressed  long  before  eight  o'clock.  Only 
Adela's  occasional  delinquencies  remained  as  a  cause  for 
mild  apologetic  remonstrance  from  her  mother.  "Your 
father  didn't  say  anything,  but  I  could  see  he  was  vexed. 
He  waited  for  two  or  three  minutes  and  asked  if  you 
weren't  coming,"  was  a  characteristic  form  of  Mrs.  Lyn- 
neker's  reproof.  And  for  the  past  few  weeks,  Adela,  also, 


230  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

had  been  scrupulously  punctual;  she  had,  indeed,  so  far 
improved  her  reputation  that  when  she  did  not  appear  on 
the  Wednesday  following  her  walk  with  Dickie,  Mr.  Lyn- 
neker  proceeded  with  prayers  as  a  matter  of  course,  with- 
out the  least  outward  mark  of  vexation.  One  morning's 
absence  in  four  weeks  was  a  permissible  irregularity. 

The  family  had  begun  breakfast  before  any  reference 
was  made  to  the  absentee. 

"Why  is  Adela  so  late  this  morning?"  her  mother  asked, 
addressing  the  table  in  general,  in  the  tone  of  one  who 
starts  an  agreeable  conversation. 

"She  went  out  to  her  organ  practice  at  seven,"  Eleanor 
replied  with  her  usual  gravity. 

"She  didn't  put  in  a  very  good  morning,"  interpolated 
Dickie.  "I  was  reading  upstairs  with  the  window  open, 
and  I  heard  her  begin,  but  she  only  played  for  about  five 
minutes." 

His  innocent  remark  introduced  a  new  mystery  into  the 
question  of  Adela's  absence.  Anything  like  an  intriguing 
mystery  was  very  rare  at  Halton,  but  the  Lynnekers  made 
the  most  of  the  scanty  material  at  their  command.  It  was 
an  excitement  to  speculate  on  horrible  possibilities  with 
the  safe  knowledge  that  a  simple,  harmless  explanation  was 
almost  certainly  forthcoming. 

Latimer,  Eleanor  and  their  mother  took  up  that  fas- 
cinating game  now, — working  themselves  up  into  a  state 
of  half-alarmed  credulity  in  awful  possibilities, — possibili- 
ties that  were  made  more  excitingly  probable  by  the  fact 
that  still  Adela  had  not  returned. 

"You  don't  think  anything  can  really  have  happened 
to  her?"  Mrs.  Lynneker  asked,  at  last,  with  genuine  solici- 
tude. This  game  of  make-believe  was  being  carried  too  far ; 
it  had  begun  to  grow  a  little  terrifying. 

Latimer,  however,  had  not  yet  reached  the  boundary  of 
sincere  apprehension. 

"It's  very  funny,"  he  said  with  an  air  of  great  gravity; 
"it's  nearly  nine  o'clock." 

"Oh!  she's  gone  for  a  walk/'  put  in  Dickie,  who  had 


ADELA  231 

taken  no  hand  in  the  game  of  speculation.  "And  she  hasn't 
got  a  watch,"  he  added,  as  he  prepared  to  leave  the  table. 

His  father  looked  up  with  a  slightly  perturbed  frown. 
"Are  you  off,  now,  my  boy?"  he  asked.  "I  wish  you'd 
just  run  over  to  the  church,  first,  and  see  if  she's  there." 

"All  right,  pater,"  Dickie  agreed,  and  went  at  once. 

His  going  seemed  to  relieve  the  tension  that  was  begin- 
ning to  affect  the  nerves  of  his  father  and  mother. 

"Adela  hasn't  been  quite  herself,  lately,"  Mrs.  Lynneker 
said.  "I  think  she  ought  to  have  a  change  of  some  sort." 

Her  husband  unexpectedly  agreed  to  the  suggestion.  "I 
had  hoped  that  we  might  all  get  away/'  he  said;  "but  I'm 
afraid  that's  hardly  practicable."  He  looked  at  his  wife. 
"You  might  take  Eleanor  and  Adela  to  St.  Edmunds  for  a 
fortnight,"  he  suggested.  "I  might  be  able  to  get  away 
for  the  middle  of  the  week  .  .  ." 

They  debated  that  plan  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  settled 
upon  it  with  a  most  unusual  lack  of  consideration. 

"Dickie's  a  very  long  time,"  Mrs.  Lynneker  said  sud- 
denly. 

"Probably  talking  to  Adela,"  the  Rector  suggested. 

"Didn't  you  think  she  was  rather  funny  last  night?" 
asked  Latimer. 

"She's  been  a  little  odd  for  the  last  three  weeks,"  put 
in  Eleanor. 

"Funny?  Was  she?"  Mrs.  Lynneker  asked,  replying  to 
Latimer's  question.  "I  don't  think  I  noticed  anything." 

"So  affectionate,"  explained  Latimer. 

The  Rector  pushed  back  his  chair  with  a  nervous  ges- 
ture and  his  wife  glanced  at  him  with  a  quick,  scared  look, 
and  put  her  hand  to  her  heart.  "What  is  it,  dear?"  she 
said. 

Mr.  Lynneker  was  leaning  a  little  forward,  his  forehead 
on  his  hand.  He  pulled  himself  together  when  his  wife 
spoke  to  him. 

"I  can't  think  that  she  .  .  ."  he  began. 

"But  what  could  she  .  .  ."  his  wife  echoed. 

They  all  remembered,  now,  that  Latimer  was  undoubtedly 


THESE  LYNNEKERS 

right.  Certainly  Adela  had  been  unusually  affectionate  the 
night  before.  But  they  could  not  guess  what  that  show 
of  feeling  might  portend.  Undoubtedly  there  was  grave 
cause  for  doubt  and  fear;  but  none  of  them  had  gone 
further  in  their  speculations  than  some  vague  apprehension 
that  "something  must  have  happened  to  her," — at  worst 
a  fainting  fit  as  she  sat  at  the  organ. 

With  a  movement  that  seemed  concerted  they  all  stood  up 
and  went  to  the  window.  They  were  just  in  time  to  see 
Dickie  coming  slowly  along  the  drive. 

He  walked  with  his  head  down,  staring  thoughtfully  at 
the  gravel.  He  had  a  letter  in  his  hand.  When  his 
mother  called  to  him,  he  looked  up  quickly  and  began  to  run. 

He  did  not  reassure  them  when  he  came  into  the  room. 
"She'd  been  to  church,"  he  said.  "And  she  left  this  on 
the  organ  keys.  It's  for  you,  pater." 

His  father  took  the  letter  quietly,  stared  at  it  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  moved  away  in  the  direction  of  his  study. 
His  wife  looked  round  at  her  three  children  with  a  white, 
shocked  face,  and  then  hurried  after  him. 

"What  do  you  suppose  she's  done?"  asked  Latimer 
uneasily. 

Dickie  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  was  thinking  that 
Adela  had  asked  him  whether  he  would  forgive  her  what- 
ever she  did. 

Eleanor  was  staring  out  of  the  window.  There  was  no 
sign  of  forgiveness  on  her  hard,  pale  face.  She  held  her 
head  erect  for  once  as  if  her  Lynneker  pride  had  mastered 
for  the  time  being  her  Christian  humility. 

"I  suppose  you  know  who  it  is  ?"  she  said. 

Neither  Latimer  nor  Dickie  had  the  least  idea. 

"Who?"  Latimer  demanded  sternly. 

"Young  Frank  Oliver,  the  carpenter,"  Eleanor  said,  and 
she  spoke  the  word  "carpenter"  with  a  bitter  disgust  that 
expressed  her  sense  of  final  outrage. 

Latimer  was  utterly  incredulous.  "Oh !  rot,  Eleanor,"  he 
expostulated.  "Adela  would  never  do  a  ghastly  thing  like 
that." 


ADELA  233 

Eleanor's  almost  imperceptible  movement  of  the  eye- 
brows said  plainly  that  she  did  not  care  what  he  thought. 
She  had  an  air  of  being  immensely  withdrawn  from  any 
kind  of  intercourse  with  her  brothers ;  as  though  she,  alone, 
were  able  to  understand  the  full  tragedy  of  this  awful 
morning,  and  was  wrapt  in  the  lonely  pride  of  her  contem- 
plation. 

Latimer  hurled  his  protestations  at  a  figure  that  appar- 
ently heard  without  attention.  And  then,  suddenly,  he  saw 
that  she  was  crying.  She  stood  perfectly  still,  with  an 
unmoved  face,  and  let  the  tears  well  and  run  unnoticed 
down  her  cheeks.  It  was  impossible  to  associate  that 
strange,  steady  weeping  with  any  tenderness  for  her  sister. 
And  yet  wounded  family  pride  was  surely  quite  an  insuf- 
ficient explanation.  .  .  . 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lynneker  were  staying  a  long  time  in  the 
Rector's  study. 

The  housemaid  came  in  half  apologetically  to  clear  the 
breakfast-table.  She  looked  now  and  again  with  a  cu- 
rious interest  at  the  three  figures  standing  in  the  window. 

"Well,  it's  time  I  was  off,"  Dickie  said. 

"I'll  come  and  see  you  start,"  Latimer  responded. 

Eleanor  followed  them  out  of  the  room  as  soon  as  the 
maid  had  taken  her  tray  into  the  kitchen. 

"I  say,  you  don't  believe  that  about  that  chap  Oliver  ?" 
Latimer  urged  hopefully  when  he  and  Dickie  were  out  of 
the  house. 

"I  do,"  Dickie  said.  "I  hope  she'll  be  all  right.  He 
seemed  a  fairly  decent  chap." 

"But,  good  God,  Dickie,"  Latimer  broke  out  fiercely. 
"He's  an  infernal  carpenter."  He  became  aware,  then,  that 
something  ought  to  be  done  at  once.  "Perhaps  it  isn't  too 
late  to  stop  them,"  he  said  eagerly.  "Where  d'you  suppose 
they've  gone?  Can't  you  go  after  them  on  your  bicycle?" 

"Oh !  keep  your  wool  on,"  returned  Dickie  roughjy.  "I'm 
going  into  Medborough  anyway.  They'd  have  to  go  there 
first." 

Latimer  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  his  brother  ride 


THESE  LYNNEKERS 

off  with  even  more  than  his  usual  energy,  and  returned  to 
the  house,  feeling  that  he  had  done  something,  at  least,  to 
avert  calamity.  He  wanted,  now,  to  be  enormously  active 
and  foreseeing.  He  decided  that  if  his  father  and  mother 
were  still  closeted  together  in  the  study,  he  must  go  and 
interrupt  them;  that  he  must  impress  upon  them  the  need 
for  some  immediate  action — what,  he  was  not  quite  cer- 
tain. He  paused  to  consider  whether  he  would  not  give 
orders  to  have  the  fyorse  put  into  the  Stanhope;  and  then 
determined  that  he  must  see  his  father  and  mother  first. 
The  three  of  them  ought  to  decide.  .  .  .  He  went  quickly 
back  to  the  house. 

IV 

The  flare  of  emotional  revolt  that  had  momentarily 
flickered  into  being  during  her  walk  with  Dickie  on  the 
Common,  had  evidently  been  burning  in  Adela  when  she 
wrote  that  farewell  note  to  her  father.  She  had  been 
defiant  to  the  verge  of  hysteria;  and  her  letter,  hastily 
written  in  pencil,  bore  the  marks  of  urgent  haste. 

And  neither  the  Rector  nor  his  wife  was  wise  enough  to 
guess  that  this  desperate  renunciation  of  family  and  creed 
could  only  have  been  the  last  of  many  attempts  to  frame 
some  convincing  defence  of  the  writer's  revolt  from  the 
placidity  and  sameness  of  rectory  life.  Without  doubt  she 
had  burned  intermittently  with  a  consciousness  of  daring 
rectitude,  had  been  overwhelmingly  sure,  ever  and  again, 
that  she  was  gifted  with  a  clearer  vision  of  things  as  they 
are,  than  was  ever  possible  for  any  member  of  her  own 
family, — with  the  one  glorious  exception  of  Dickie.  But 
the  impossibility — she  must  have  tried — of  putting  that  de- 
fence of  hers  on  paper,  had  unquestionably  daunted  her. 
She  must  have  recognised  the  utter  impregnability  of  the 
wall  she  wished  to  scale.  How  could  she  have  set  down 
any  argument  against  their  religion,  when  she  had  found  it 
impossible  to  grasp  the  argument  in  her  own  mind?  She 
had  felt  that  Dickie  was  right;  had  vaguely  seen  a  distant 


ADELA  235 

light  of  relief  that  might  guide  her  out  of  this  muffled 
restraint.  She  could  not  formulate  her  reasons  even  to 
herself,  and  perhaps  she  was  defiantly  aware  that  she  was 
prejudiced  by  her  inclination.  Yet,  her  other  defence  was 
so  obviously  hopeless.  She  could  never  explain  her  feelings 
for  the  handsome,  rather  overbearing  young  carpenter.  She 
knew  that  her  father  did  not  like  him,  had  said  on  more 
than  one  occasion  that  "that  boy  of  Oliver's  put  on  airs 
above  his  position."  Edward  and  Latimer  had  both  criti- 
cised young  Oliver's  "side."  And  she  had  been  too  proud 
to  make  any  humilating  confession  of  love.  She  may 
have  felt  that  she  would  have  dishonoured  her  lover  by 
excusing  her  passion  for  him.  .  .  . 

Her  father  and  Latimer  were  outraged  by  that  brief 
repudiation  of  their  social  and  religious  views;  it  stiffened 
them  into  a  righteous  anger  that  saved  the  Rector  tempo- 
rarily from  any  depth  of  grief.  He  was,  for  a  time,  almost 
too  angry  to  be  shocked ;  and  the  butt  of  his  wrath  was  so 
simply  the  figure  of  young  Frank  Oliver  that  Adela  was 
nearly  forgotten. 

For  that  morning,  it  appeared  that  atheism,  revolution 
and  all  the  crimes  they  begot  were  solely  due  to  "educating 
the  lower  classes  above  their  position."  The  Lynnekers 
were  too  old  to  brook  this  new  rivalry  of  labour,  but  al- 
ready the  shadow  of  fear  was  falling  upon  them. 

Latimer  wanted  to  go  at  once  and  abuse  young  Oliver's 
father. 

But  the  real  hurt  that  stood  between  Adela  and  forgive- 
ness, the  injustice  to  the  family  that  outweighed  the  hys- 
terical asseverations  of  her  farewell  letter,  lay  in  the  fact 
that  the  scandal  was  all  over  the  parish.  The  Lynnekers 
had  been  attacked  and  partly  crippled.  The  slight  that 
had  been  put  upon  them  was  no  temporary  hurt  which 
might  soon  heal  and  be  forgotten,  but  an  ever  open  wound 
that  they  must  perpetually  carry  for  every  villager  to 
stare  at  and  whisper  about  when  their  backs  were  turned. 

No  self-deception  was  possible  for  them  from  that  first 
morning.  Frank  Oliver's  father  came  to  the  Rectory  back 


236  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

door  at  eleven  o'clock  and  humbly  asked  to  see  Mr.  Lyn- 
neker.  Latimer,  suddenly  aware  of  intense  family  feeling, 
changed  his  mind  with  regard  to  venting  his  passion  in 
abuse,  and  vehemently  shut  the  dining-room  door  to  save 
his  eyes  from  the  pollution  of  seeing  the  old  man  cross  the 
hall  to  the  Rector's  study. 

Yet  poor  old  Oliver  was  humble  enough.  There  was 
no  sign  of  the  revolt  of  labour  about  him.  He  had  sung 
an  uncertain  tenor  in  the  choir  for  thirty  years,  and  done 
odd  jobs  about  the  Rectory  ever  since  he  had  gone  into 
trousers. 

He  stood  just  inside  the  study  door  and  fumbled  his  cap 
like  an  inexpert  criminal. 

"I  can't  think  what  you  and  your  wife  can  have  been 
about,  Oliver,"  the  Rector  said  peevishly. 

"We  hadn't  no  idea,  sir,  what  was  goin'  on/'  his  daugh- 
ter's future  father-in-law  explained.  "Frank's  been  up  in 
Liverpool  the  last  three  weeks.  He's  been  talkin'  of  goin' 
to  'is  brother  in  Canada  for  a  long  time  past,  and  he  told 
us  as  he  was  makin'  arrangements."  He  hesitated  and 
added  by  way  of  apology:  "Mrs.  Oliver  and  me  was  al- 
ways against  his  goin'." 

The  Rector  frowned  and  fidgeted.  "But  do  you  mean 
that — that  you  had  no  idea  about — about  your  son  and  Miss 
Adela?" 

Mr.  Oliver  was  obviously  confused.  "A  short  while 
ago  we  had,  sir,"  he  mumbled.  "But  we  thought  it  was 
all  over  and  done  with.  We've  spoken  about  it  to  Frank 
more'n  once ;  but  he  was  always  very  short  with  us,  and  we, 
somehow,  never  thought  anything'd  come  of  it." 

What  could  the  Rector  say  or  do  ?  He  wanted  most 
impatiently  to  be  rid  of  the  man,  who  stood  there  by  the 
study  door,  furtively  wiping  his  eyes  with  a  dirty  red  hand- 
kerchief; the  man  who  was  crying  not  for  any  disgrace, 
but  for  the  loss  of  his  son. 

"Well,  well,  Oliver,  it's  obvious  that  nothing  can  be 
done,"  Mr.  Lynneker  said  on  a  note  of  dismissal. 

The  carpenter  turned  obediently,  and  then  paused  to  say : 


ADELA  237 

"Frank  has  spoken  of  our  gbin'  out  to  him,  sir/' — a  pos- 
sible consolation  that  in  no  way  softened  the  Rector's 
present  feelings  towards  his  daughter. 

Nevertheless  it  was  not  in  the  Lynneker  blood  to  harbour 
a  perpetual  resentment  against  Adela.  The  strain  was  at 
least  a  century  too  old  to  maintain  the  stern,  unforgiving 
attitude  of  romance.  Even  before  Adela's  second  letter 
arrived  from  Liverpool  they  were  beginning,  a  little  inertly, 
to  find  excuses  for  her. 


Edward  and  his  wife  came  over  to  Halton  the  next  day. 
They  had  returned  from  their  honeymoon  the  night  before, 
to  find  the  dreadful  news  conveyed  to  them  at  the  Vicarage 
by  a  note  from  Mrs.  Lynneker.  (For  the  next  few  months, 
at  least,  they  were  to  live  with  Helen's  father;  her  mother 
had  been  dead  for  ten  years.  The  Vicarage  was  big  enough 
to  provide  them  with  a  completely  separate  suite  of  apart- 
ments ;  but  Helen  was  to  carry  on  all  the  housekeeping  for 
a  time.  Her  sister,  Margery,  was  only  nineteen.) 

Edward  was  greatly  shocked.  He  was  not  sure  that  this 
horrible  scandal  in  his  family  might  not  spoil  his  chance  of 
the  Thrapley  living;  and  the  present  incumbent  had  been 
confined  to  his  bed  for  two  years,  and  every  one  knew  that 
the  curate-in-charge  was  very  unlikely  to  get  preferment — 
for  one  thing,  this  was  his  first  cure  in  the  diocese.  More- 
over, Sir  Frederic  was  a  personal  friend  of  the  Vicar's. 
Edward  had  good  cause  for  a  resentment  that  he  did  his 
best  to  disguise. 

Every  one  but  the  Rector  was  present  that  afternoon.  He 
had  recovered,  now,  from  his  first  indignation,  and  was 
nursing  in  private  the  very  real  grief  that  had  succeeded  his 
immediate  reaction  to  Adela's  defiance.  When  his  wife  had 
gone  to  his  study  to  tell  him  that  Edward  and  Helen  were 
in  the  drawing-room,  she  had  found  her  husband  bowed 
forward  in  his  chair  with  his  face  in  his  hands. 


238  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

He  had  shaken  his  head  without  looking  up,  when  she 
had  stammeringly  made  her  announcement,  and  she  had  re- 
treated at  once,  shutting  the  door  behind  her  with  the  deli- 
cacy of  one  who  leaves  a  sanctuary. 

Something  of  awe  still  lingered  in  her  face  as  she  re- 
entered  the  drawing-room.  "Your  father's  dreadfully  up- 
set," she  said,  in  a  hushed,  mysterious  voice.  "I  don't  think 
he  will  come  in  this  afternoon." 

That  statement  gave  Edward  the  suggestion  he  had  been 
seeking,  and  he  instantly  grasped  the  opportunity  to  display 
the  attitude  that  might  properly  be  expected  from  him. 

He  got  to  his  feet  with  a  look  of  grave  concern.  "Shall 
I  go  to  him,  mater?"  he  asked,  and  there  was  a  fine  air  of 
solicitude  in  his  manner  as  he  most  unnecessarily  led  his 
mother  back  to  the  sofa. 

"Better  not,  I  think,"  she  said.  "He  wants  to  be  alone." 
She  looked  up  gratefully  at  her  eldest  son;  she  was  glad 
that  he  should  show  this  concern  for  her  and  his  father; 
but  her  own  feeling  with  regard  to  Adela  still  remained  in 
its  first  stage  of  utter  perplexity.  In  her  heart  she  had  an 
immense  sympathy  with  her  daughter  that  she  dared  not 
proclaim. 

"It's  very  hard  on  the  pater,"  Edward  said  judicially. 
"Very  hard,  indeed;  and  on  you,  too,  mother."  He  felt 
that  the  more  tender  form  of  address  was  called  for,  and 
made  quite  an  effect  by  his  use  of  it.  He  had  taken  up  his 
stand  on  the  hearth-rug  and  was  prepared,  now,  with  his 
sermon. 

"Frightfully  hard,"  mumbled  Latimer,  responding  on  be- 
half of  the  congregation. 

Dickie,  home  early  from  the  Bank,  stared  moodily  out 
of  the  window.  Eleanor  still  wore  that  hard,  inattentive 
frown  which  set  her  apart  from  the  others.  Helen,  having 
taken  off  her  gloves  and  rolled  them  into  an  untidy  ball, 
sat  waiting  with  an  air  of  resigned  submission.  It  was 
evident  that  she  would  have  many  questions  to  ask,  pres- 
ently. 

Edward  had  the  situation  in  hand  for  the  next  few  min- 


ADELA  239 

utes.  He  tried  very  hard  to  be  reasonable  and  decent 
about  it. 

"Of  course,  there's  nothing  to  be  done,"  he  said.  "We've 
simply  got  to  wipe  Adela  out  of  our  lives.  I  must  confess 
that  I  can't  understand  what  could  have  induced  her  to  do 
a  thing  like  that.  It's  perfectly  incredible  to  me,  putting 
aside  altogether  her  impossible  infatuation  for  a  man  of  that 
class ;  it  is,  I  think,  perfectly  incredible  that  she  could  have 
had  such  an  utter  lack  of  consideration  for — for  you, 
mother;  and — and  for  the  pater.  She  must  have  been 
mad,  absolutely  mad."  The  thought  of  Thrapley  gave  his 
voice  an  intense  ring  of  conviction,  and  nearly  diverted  him 
from  the  admirable  line  he  had  taken.  "What  riles  me  .  .  ." 
he  began,  and  then  pulled  himself  up,  clasping  his  hands  be- 
hind his  back.  "There's  simply  no  other  explanation,"  he 
concluded  tamely. 

"I  really  don't  think  there  is,"  came  the  dull  response 
from  Latimer's  cantoris  stall. 

"We've  simply  got  to  put  her  out  of  our  lives,"  Edward 
repeated,  conscious  that  he  had  achieved  no  climax. 

Even  that  judgment  seemed  to  awaken  no  particular 
fervour  among  his  audience.  His  mother  still  looked  up  at 
him  with  deliberate  attention,  as  if  she  admired  him  greatly 
and  was  anxious  to  agree  with  him  if  she  possibly  could. 

"What's  he  like  ?"  put  in  Helen,  suddenly ;  either  because 
her  patience  was  exhausted,  or  because  she  believed  the  ser- 
mon was  concluded. 

No  one  affected  to  misunderstand  the  reference.  "Oh! 
a  ghastly  bounder,"  Edward  replied  impatiently.  "Puts  on 
no  end  of  side." 

"But  to  look  at,"  persisted  Helen,  turning  to  her  mother- 
in-law. 

"He's  certainly  very  good-looking,"  conceded  Mrs.  Lyn- 
neker. 

"Oh !  good  Lord !"  ejaculated  Latimer. 

"Yes,  I  know,  but  I  want  to  understand,"  Helen  said. 
"Hadn't  you  the  least  idea  of  what  was  going  on?"  she 
continued. 


240  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

Mrs.  Lynneker  shook  her  head  and  compressed  her  lips. 

"Hardly  likely  that  we  should  suspect  her  of  a  thing  like 
that,"  Latimer  said  superciliously.  He  was  not  going  to  be 
snubbed  for  nothing. 

Mrs.  Lynneker  was  wishing  that  she  could  have  a  quiet 
talk  alone  with  her  new  daughter;  they  seemed  to  have  a 
curiosity  in  common  that  could  never  be  satisfied  by  this 
perpetual  denunciation  of  young  Oliver. 

"She  must  have  seen  something  in  him  .  .  ."  she  began 
weakly,  and  stopped,  ashamed,  at  the  murmur  of  protest 
she  had  evoked. 

"Oh!  mother,"  was  Eleanor's  reproach;  her  first  con- 
tribution to  the  symposium. 

And  then  the  other  silent  member  of  the  party  claimed 
his  right  to  a  hearing. 

He  turned  from  the  window  with,  a  look  of  rather  dis- 
gusted resolution,  as  if  he  meant  to  perform  a  duty  that 
was  altogether  distasteful  to  him. 

"  'Is  not  this  the  carpenter's  son  ?'  "  he  said,  staring  some- 
thing contemptuously  at  his  elder  brother. 

"Oh!  my  dear  chap,  that's  absolutely  a  different  thing 
in  every  way,"  Edward  said.  He  was  manifestly  shocked 
at  the  profanity  of  the  quotation.  "Christ  was  the  Son  of 
God,"  he  added  reverently,  giving  the  reference  its  proper 
context  by  his  manner ;  and  challenging  his  brother  to  com- 
plete his  analogy  by  any  suggestion  of  young  Oliver's  pos- 
sibly Divine  origin. 

"Yes,  you  preach  that,"  Dickie  said,  "and  I  suppose  you 
preach,  too, — every  one  does, — that  he  was  born  into  that 
class  as  an  example  of  humility.  I  don't  know ;  I've  always 
taken  it  to  mean  that  we  weren't  to  judge  a  man  simply 
because  he  was  a  workman." 

He  had  made  them  all  uncomfortable,  even  his  mother 
and  Helen.  He  had  been  guilty  of  bad  taste  in  dragging 
religion  into  the  discussion.  Religion  was  something  to 
be  practised  according  to  certain  rules ;  only  non-conformists 
mixed  it  up  with  their  every-day  conversation.  Aunt  Mary 


ADELA  241 

was  a  possible  exception,  but  they  deprecated  too  overt  ref- 
erences, even  in  her  case. 

Edward  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I  don't  think  we  need 
discuss  that,"  he  said  contemptuously. 

"But  it's  the  whole  point  in  this  case,"  Dickie  returned. 
"Don't  you  know  that  poor  old  Adela  said  in  the  letter  she 
left  that  she  didn't  believe  in  Christianity  any  longer?" 

"Yes,  we  heard  that,"  Edward  admitted,  impatiently. 
"But  really,  I  don't  see  that  that  .  .  ." 

"You  wouldn't,"  Dickie  interrupted  him.  "You  wouldn't 
see,  either,  that  Adela  had  the  originality  to  think  things 
out  for  herself.  But,  great  Scott,"  he  continued  with  more 
energy,  "can  you  wonder  that  she  began  to  doubt  if  there 
was  anything  in  your  religion  when  you  never  dream  of 
living  up  to  it?  That's  a  test  for  girls  like  Adela;  you 
mayn't  believe  it,  but  it  is.  And  she  must  have  seen  us 
at  lots  of  times  like  this,  when  we'd  put  any  other  mortal 
consideration  before  the  religious  one.  Young  Oliver  was 
a  carpenter,  and  a  jolly  fine  workman.  You've  got  noth- 
ing in  the  world  against  him,  morally;  and  if  you  believe 
one  atom  of  what  you  preach  every  Sunday,  it's  jolly  well 
your  duty  to  be  decent  to  him  and  Adela.  If  it  isn't,  the 
Sermon  on  the  Mount  is  the  most  piffling  rot  that  was  ever 
preached."  He  paused  for  a  moment  and  looked  around 
at  the  embarrassed  faces  of  his  horrified  family, — Mrs. 
Lynneker,  alone,  looked  as  if  here,  at  last,  was  the  solution 
of  all  her  perplexities, — and  then  he  turned  to  his  sister- 
in-law  and  said :  "Helen,  can't  you  see  that  ?  Surely,  you 
must  see  that  there's  no  earthly  good  in  a  religion  that 
won't  work?" 

She  met  his  gaze  with  the  first  hint  of  a  smile  on  her 
face,  her  mouth  a  little  pursed,  her  eyes  ready  to  twinkle. 
"But,  surely,  Dick,"  she  said,  "there  must  be  some  kind 
of  limit." 

"To  forgiveness,  for  example?"  he  retorted. 

The  quotation  needed  no  further  pointing  in  that  com- 
pany; they  all  knew  that  the  indefinitely  large  figure  of 
"seventy  times  seven"  was  the  prescribed  limit.  And  as  he 


THESE  LYNNEKERS 

had  no  reasonable  answer,  Edward  fell  back  on  a  pretence 
of  insulted  authority. 

"If  you're  going  to  be  rude  to  Helen,  I  think  you  had 
better  leave  the  room,"  he  said,  and  he  stuck  out  his  under 
lip  and  looked  at  Dickie  with  the  threatening  frown  that 
had  availed  him  in  their  school-days,  when  his  six  years' 
seniority  was  a  solid  argument  that  had  given  him  the 
right  to  bully. 

''Don't  be  a  silly  ass,"  Dickie  returned  calmly. 

Edward's  face  was  suffused  with  blood  and  he  began  to 
blink  rapidly,  as  he  said:  "We  all  know  you've  got  the 
manners  of  a  labourer  .  .  ." 

But  Eleanor  abruptly  stopped  his  childish  abuse  by  say- 
ing: "And  has  our  lack  of  religion  upset  your  faith,  too, 
Dick?"  Her  voice  rang  out,  clear  and  sharp,  above  the 
spluttering  anger  of  her  brother. 

"That  and  other  things,"  Dickie  said  resolutely. 

"You  mean  that  you're  an  atheist?"  Eleanor  asked. 

"That  is  what  you  would  call  me,  no  doubt,"  he  agreed. 

"And  yet  you  dare  to  try  and  teach  us  our  duty?" 

The  retort  was  quite  illogical,  but  it  cut  the  ground  from 
under  Dickie's  feet  because  it  questioned  his  power  of 
judgment.  If  he  were  an  "atheist,"  he  was  a  criminal  fool, 
and  certainly  negligible  as  a  teacher. 

Edward  found  an  opportunity.  'The  fool  has  said  in 
his  heart  there  is  no  God,'  "  he  quoted  pityingly.  Surely,  he 
thought,  they  had  the  young  idiot,  now.  He  had  given 
himself  away,  hopelessly.  Edward  would  not  stand  being 
called  a  "silly  ass"  in  front  of  Helen.  .  .  . 

Dickie  stood  quite  still.  He  looked  from  Eleanor  to 
Edward  and  then  threw  a  quick  glance  at  Latimer,  Helen 
and  his  mother. 

"You  are  wrong  by  my  standard  and  wrong  by  your 
own,"  he  said.  "Isn't  that  enough?  Does  it  matter  who 
says  it?  Call  me  anything  you  like;  put  me  out  of  it  alto- 
gether. I  only  want  to  know  how  you  get  out  of  that 
command  to  forgive  your  brother  and  your  sister,  young 
Oliver  and  Adela,  unto  seventy  times  seven."  Then  he 


ADELA 

turned  directly  to  Eleanor.  "How  do  you  excuse  yourself  ?" 
he  asked. 

"I  have  never  said  that  I  can't  forgive  Adela,"  she  re- 
turned quietly.  "I  do  forgive  her." 

There  was  no  sign  of  forgiveness  on  her  set  face;  but 
she  was  prepared  to  do  her  duty  by  her  religion;  even  to 
make  acknowledgment  of  her  forgiveness  in  public. 

She  returned  Dickie's  questioning  stare  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, resolutely,  with  an  exalted  determination  of  pur- 
pose; and  then  she  got  up  quickly. 

"I  forgive  them  both,"  she  said,  with  a  little  gasp  as  if 
her  confession  gave  her  some  .short,  acute  pain,  "and  I  for- 
give you,  Dick,  for  the  dreadful  things  you've  said,  because 
I  don't  believe  you  can  possibly  be  in  earnest."  She  met 
his  eyes  again  and  saw  there  the  doubt  of  her  sincerity. 
"Oh !  I  do,  I  do,"  she  repeated,  raising  her  voice.  "I  forgive 
you  all."  She  made  a  movement  with  her  two  arms  as  if 
she  would  raise  them  in  a  wide  gesture  of  appeal  to  Heaven, 
and  then  dropped  her  hands  to  her  side  and  walked  to  the 
door.  They  all  watched  her  with  a  tense  anxiety  as  she 
went  out.  She  moved  as  if  she  were  precariously  upheld  by 
a  violent  effort  of  will.  It  was  a  relief  to  hear  her  footsteps 
go  more  hurriedly  down  the  passage,  when  she  had  closed 
the  door  behind  her. 

VI 

An  awkward  silence  followed  Eleanor's  departure.  Mrs. 
Lynneker,  at  her  end  of  the  staid  sofa,  had  buried  her  face 
in  her  hands.  She  might  have  been  praying  or  weeping; 
she  was  certainly  suffering  some  anguish  of  spirit.  Helen 
was  nervously  picking  at  the  buttons  on  her  gloves.  She 
wore  an  air  of  being  absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts,  but 
once  or  twice  she  glanced  anxiously  at  her  mother-in-law. 
Dickie  had  sat  down  on  the  little  three-seated  ottoman  in 
the  middle  of  the  room.  He  was  leaning  forward  with  his 
elbows  on  his  knees,  staring  at  the  carpet  and  abstractedly 
ruffling  his  hair. 


244  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

Edward  and  Latimer  looked  at  each  other  with  an  ex- 
pression that  implied  a  deprecating  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 
Their  sense  of  decency  had  been  badly  shocked.  This  polite 
family  conclave  had  been  turned  into  a  "scene";  and  they 
were  not  prepared  with  any  nice  formula  of  response.  They 
had  been  conscious  of  an  emotional  thrill  at  the  dramatic 
quality  of  Eleanor's  reply  to  their  brother's  blundering  and 
gaucherie,  but  their  education  and  training  stood  between 
them  and  any  frank  expression  of  their  feelings.  They 
had  no  weapon  but  their  knowledge  of  proper  behaviour. 

"Well,"  Edward  began  judicially,  trying  the  effect  of 
his  voice  on  the  silence ;  "well,  I  don't  see  that  it's  any  use 
going  on  with  this  discussion." 

"Not  a  bit  of  use,"  echoed  Latimer. 

"But  you  know,  Ted,  Dickie  is  quite  right,"  Helen  said, 
looking  thoughtfully  at  the  portrait  of  Gordon  that  hung 
over  the  piano. 

Edward  frowned  irritably.  "If  you  mean  that  we  ought 
to  forgive  Adela,"  he  said,  "I  am  willing  to  agree;  I  don't 
think  that  I've  ever  said  that  we  wouldn't." 

"Got  to  forgive  her  as  if  you  meant  it ;  it's  no  good  just 
saying  you  forgive  her,"  grunted  Dickie,  without  moving 
his  position. 

"I  should  like  to  know  very  much  why  you  think  you've 
got  a  right  to  teach  us  our  duty,"  Edward  returned  with  all 
the  irony  he  could  muster.  He  was  determined  not  to  lose 
his  temper  again. 

Dickie  sighed  and  sat  up.  "What  a  casuist  you  are, 
Edward,"  he  said.  "Why  don't  you  face  the  question 
instead  of  trying  to  wriggle  out  on  some  side  issue?" 

"Yes,  Ted,  really  you  are,"  Helen  agreed.  "The  point 
is,  are  we  all  prepared  to  forgive  Adela  from  .  .  ."  she 
flushed  a  little  at  the  stiltedness  of  her  phrase,  "from  the 
bottom  of  our  hearts?" 

Edward  lifted  his  chin  and  stared  at  the  opposite  wall 
with  a  fine  air  of  priestly  reserve  and  judgment;  he  blinked 
rapidly,  as  if  that  were  an  aid  to  detached  thought. 


ADELA  245 

"I  have  never  denied  that  we  were  prepared  to  forgive 
her,"  he  said  in  his  best  voice. 

"And  Frank  Oliver,  of  course,"  added  Dickie. 

Edward  was  obviously  clenching  his  hands  behind  his 
back.  He  was  being  pushed  into  a  very  uncomfortable 
corner,  and  his  only  way  of  escape  seemed  to  be  in  an 
admission  of  his  sacred  calling.  And  he  wanted  to  main- 
tain not  only  his  dignity,  but  also  an  appearance  of  strength 
of  character,  before  his  wife.  He  must  let  her  see  that  he 
was  big  enough  to  put  his  duty  before  any  personal  inclina- 
tion. 

"It  may  be  a  more  difficult  thing  to  do,"  he  said  in  a 
muffled  voice,  "uncommonly  difficult,  but  I  admit  that  we 
ought  to  forgive  young  Oliver,  too." 

Latimer  threw  himself  back  into  his  chair  with  a  gasp 
of  impatience.  "Oh!  well,  leave  me  out  of  it,"  he  said. 

Dickie  glanced  at  him  with  a  faint  smile  of  relief.  "You 
don't  feel  like  forgiving  him,  Latimer?"  he  asked. 

Latimer  realised  that  in  some  way  he  did  not  quite  un- 
derstand he  had  pleased  the  common  enemy.  His  boule- 
versement  was  unhappily  too  rapid.  "No,  old  boy,  I  don't," 
he  said.  "Honestly  now,  do  you  ?" 

"I?  Oh!  Lord,  yes,"  Dickie  replied.  "I  don't  feel  like 
you  do  about  it.  If  he's  kind  to  Adela,  and  they're  happy, 
I  don't  care  a  hang.  If  he  isn't  I'll  go  and  break  his  con- 
founded neck." 

Edward  sneered.  "Is  that  your  idea  of  Christianity?" 
he  asked. 

"No,  it  isn't,"  Dickie  said ;  "but  then,  I  suppose  I'm  not 
what  you'd  call  a  Christian.  The  point  is,  it  seems  to  me, 
to  be  consistent.  If  you  believe  in  it  you  ought  to  practise 
it." 

Mrs.  Lynneker  had  kept  her  face  covered  during  all 
this  conversation,  but  now  she  revealed  the  cause  of  the 
pain  she  had  been  suffering.  She  dropped  her  hands  and 
stared  at  Dickie  with  an  expression  of  anxious  misery. 

"Oh!  Dick,  you  can't  mean  it,"  she  implored  him;  "you 
can't  mean  that  you  don't  believe." 


246  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

He  winced  perceptibly.  He  knew  that  he  was  in  the 
toils  now.  He  had  meant  to  avoid  that  admission  of  un- 
belief for  a  time  in  order  to  save  his  father  and  mother. 
For  that  he  had  been  willing  to  sacrifice  his  personal  pride, 
his  consciousness  of  being  open  and  honest.  But  the  thing 
had  been  forced  upon  him.  He  had  been  characteristically 
unable  to  answer  Eleanor's  question  with  a  bald  lie. 

"Don't  take  it  like  that,  dear/'  he  said,  gently.  "It's  only 
that  I've  been  reading  and  thinking  a  good  deal  about  these 
things  lately/' 

"Did  you  influence  poor  Adela  ?"  put  in  Edward. 

Dickie  disregarded  him.  "And,  mother,"  he  continued,  "I 
haven't  said  that  I  don't  believe  in  God,  you  know.  It's 
absurd  really  to  call  me  an  'atheist,'  but  people  like  Eleanor 
don't  understand  any  other  word." 

Mrs.  Lynneker's  fear  lifted  a  little.  She  took  no  notice 
of  Edward's  commiserating  gesture ;  he  had  stepped  forward 
as  if  he  would  come  over  and  comfort  her.  "But  if  you  be- 
lieve that,"  she  began. 

Dickie  went  and  sat  by  her  on  the  sofa  and  put  his  arm 
round  her.  "I  think  I  do  believe  that,"  he  said. 

Helen's  eyes  were  beginning  to  brim  now.  She  was 
hastily  searching  in  some  recesses  of  her  dress  for  a  hand- 
kerchief. 

Latimer  got  up  and  stuck  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
glanced  out  of  the  window,  and  then  sauntered  carelessly 
over  to  the  door.  He  paused  to  adjust  a  photograph  frame 
that  stood  on  a  cabinet  of  old  china,  as  he  passed  out.  He 
was  conscious  that  he  had  missed  his  line  on  this  occasion. 
He  was  persuading  himself  that  they  were  all  making  "a 
most  ghastly  fuss  about  nothing."  As  he  paced  the  back 
lawn  and  blew  relieving  clouds  of  smoke  from  his  pipe,  he 
was  rather  thankful  to  feel  that  he  was  still  a  man  of  the 
world,  that  he  had  still  two  months  before  he  need  finally 
accept  the  yoke  of  deacon's  orders.  That  afternoon's  dis- 
cussion had  certainly  been  rather  illuminating.  Young 
Dickie  had  "had"  Edward  badly  .  .  .  clever  kid,  young 
Dickie, — too  bally  self-opinionated,  of  course  .  .  .  and  that 


ADELA  247 

point  about  the  necessity  for  forgiveness  was  incontro- 
vertible, even  by  Edward's  casuistry.  Rather  a  good  shot 
of  Dickie's,  that ;  it  was  true ;  Edward  was  a  casuist — when 
you  took  orders,  you  signed  away  your  liberty  of  thought. 
You  undertook  to  believe  and  practise  all  the  teachings  of 
the  church.  You  couldn't  get  away  from  that  in  theory; 
and  if  you  tried  a  line  of  your  own,  you  could  be  had  every 
time  as  Edward  had  been  this  afternoon. 

Latimer  stopped  in  his  walk  and  blew  a  balloon  of 
smoke  that  hung  for  a  moment,  a  pale  phantasm  seen 
against  the  solid  green  mass  of  the  great  elm  at  the  top 
of  the  lawn,  before  it  was  caught  in  a  thin  draught  of  air 
and  dispersed  into  nothingness. 

But  what  was  he  going  to  do,  if  he  didn't  take  orders  ? 


VII 

The  little  group  left  in  the  drawing-room  was  recovering 
its  normal  relations. 

Mrs.  Lynneker  was  almost  cheerful  again.  She  was 
holding  Dickie's  hand,  a  permissible  sentimentality  in  that 
company,  and  had  found  courage,  with  his  support,  to  say 
something  of  what  was  in  her  mind. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  should  do  if  I  lost  you,  too,"  she 
said,  and  then,  realising  that  her  intention  had  been  slightly 
invidious,  she  looked  across  at  her  eldest  son,  and  added: 
"And  Edward  is  practically  lost  to  me  now." 

Helen  and  her  husband  charmingly  denied  that,  but  when 
their  little  outburst  of  affection  was  over,  Mrs.  Lynneker 
returned  to  her  point. 

"I  do  feel  that  Dick  is  right  about  Adela  and  young 
Oliver,"  she  began  with  a  slightly  forced  steadiness.  "And 
I  believe  your  father  will  say  so,  too.  It  has  been  a  dread- 
ful blow  to  him." 

"I  suppose  you  don't  know  where  they're  going  to  live  ?" 
asked  Helen. 


248  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"His  father  told  us  they  were  going  to  Canada,"  Mrs. 
Lynneker  said.  "Didn't  I  say  that  in  my  note  ?" 

"No,  you  certainly  didn't,"  Edward  replied.  He  saw 
that  this  put  quite  a  different  aspect  on  the  question  of 
forgiveness.  It  might  not  be  so  difficult  to  find  excuses 
for  a  carpenter's  son  when  he  was  3,000  miles  or  so  away, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic. 

He  sat  down  in  his  father's  arm-chair  and  crossed  his 
legs.  He  wanted  to  be  very  impartial  and  convincing;  and 
he  carefully  avoided  looking  at  Dickie  as  he  said: 

"What  does  he  propose  to  do  out  there  ?" 

"He  has  a  brother  in  Canada,"  Mrs.  Lynneker  explained. 
"Don't  you  remember  him?  Harry  Oliver,  rather  a  nice 
young  man,  more  diffident  than  Frank.  I  suppose  that  it 
must  have  been  seven  or  eight  years  ago  that  he  went, — 
perhaps  you  were  at  Cambridge.  Your  father  preached  a 
sort  of  farewell  sermon." 

"I  believe  I  do  remember  hearing  something  about  it," 
Edward  admitted.  "Anyway,  I  remember  the  boy,  dimly. 
Have  you  heard  how  he's  doing?" 

"No,  we  haven't  heard  that.  I  must  ask  his  father," 
Mrs.  Lynneker  said. 

Edward  shrank  a  little  from  this  statement.  He  remem- 
bered that  if  his  impossible  brother-in-law  had  relieved  the 
family  of  his  presence,  he  had  left  his  relations  behind  him. 
"You  won't,  of  course.  .  .  ."  He  began,  and  then  stopped, 
conscious  that  his  brother  was  watching  him. 

"Won't  what?"  asked  Dickie. 

"I  mean  that  our  .  .  .  our  relations  with  the  Olivers  will 
— will  be  a  little  difficult,"  Edward  said. 

"The  old  man  was  very  nice  this  morning,"  his  mother 
put  in  quickly.  "He  didn't  attempt  to  presume  in  any  way, 
you  know.  I  can't  help  feeling  very  sorry  for  him  and  his 
wife.  Your  father  told  me  that  Oliver  was  crying  this 
morning;  they've  only  those  two  children,  you  see.  Oliver 
said  something  about  going  out  to  join  them." 

"Yes,  awfully  sad  for  them  in  a  way,"  muttered  Edward. 

"Poor  old  things,"  Helen  remarked,  with  real  feeling. 


ADELA  249 

Edward  had  an  inspiration.  "Yes,  it  makes  one  feel  that 
something  ought  to  be  done  for  them,"  he  said.  "Do  you 
suppose  the  question  of  finding  the  passage-money  is  their 
real  difficulty?  I  was  only  wondering  if  .  .  ." 

"If  their  society  wasn't  more  likely  to  suit  Adela  than 
it  does  us  ?"  suggested  Dickie. 

"Her  own  choice,"  returned  Edward  patiently.  The  best 
way  to  treat  this  difficult  young  brother  was  to  keep  cool 
and  to  score  whenever  possible,  he  decided. 

Dickie  exhibited  no  consciousness  of  having  been  snubbed. 
"I  don't  suppose  they've  got  fleas,"  he  remarked  thought- 
fully. 

"My  dear!"  his  mother  protested.  Edward's  lift  of  the 
eyebrows  proclaimed  the  offence  done  to  his  fastidious 
sense  of  the  niceties  of  conversation.  Helen  looked  at  her 
young  brother-in-law  with  an  interested  smile. 

"Why  fleas,  Dick?"  she  asked. 

"Oh!  I  was  just  thinking,"  he  said.  "It  was  a  distinc- 
tion of  Martyn's  that  seemed  to  work,  in  a  way;"  and  he 
explained  the  verger's  classification  of  the  three  estates. 

"I  know  I  must  be  fearfully  muddle-headed  about  this 
social  distinction  business,"  he  concluded.  "I  can't  get  it 
right  in  my  own  mind.  I  do  feel  as  you  do  about  it,  gen- 
erally. People  like  old  Oliver  are  different  from  us  in 
heaps  of  ways.  But  I  can't  see  why  they  should  be. 
When  you  come  to  think  about  it,  it  seems  to  be  so  largely 
a  question  of  the  way  they  talk, — and  their  manners — 
and  washing." 

"They're  different  in  grain,"  Edward  said.  "I  have  had 
more  experience  of  them  than  you  have." 

"But  isn't  it  all  a  difference  of  education?"  Dickie  sug- 
gested. 

Edward  shook  his  head.  "They're  different  in  grain," 
he  repeated.  He  thought  the  phrase  was  rather  effective. 

They  could  get  no  further  towards  an  understanding. 
Dickie  was  wondering  if  he  and  his  brothers  were  not  in 
some  incomprehensible  way,  also  different  in  grain.  There 
were  points  at  which  they  could  not  meet.  When  he  came 


250  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

to  talk  to  them  about  religion  or  this  strange  social  problem, 
they  came  to  positions  at  which  no  contact  seemed  possible. 
A  curious  metaphor  came  to  his  mind,  a  figure  drawn  from 
his  study  of  physics.  Perhaps  the  substance  of  thought 
had  qualities  more  or  less  analogous  to  the  qualities  of 
matter.  In  certain  relations  he  and  his  brothers  could  ex- 
change ideas — their  thoughts  were  impenetrable  as  solid 
matter  is,  and  there  was  some  clash  of  meeting  and  opposi- 
tion, some  friction  of  surfaces,  some  recognisable  smooth- 
ing of  opinions.  But  in  other  relations  he  could  not  touch 
their  thought,  nor  could  they  touch  his.  His  ideas  seemed 
to  pass  through  theirs  without  effecting  any  change,  with- 
out actual  contact ;  there  was  some  kind  of  spiritual  osmosis, 
in  which  the  barrier  opposed  by  his  brothers'  minds  re- 
mained unchanged  and  immovable,  and  at  the  same  time 
was  quite  ineffectual  to  stop  the  passage  or  alter  the  quality 
of  his  own  thought. 

VIII 

Helen  rather  annoyed  her  husband  that  evening.  They 
were  alone  in  their  own  drawing-room  after  dinner  (Hal- 
ton  dined  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  but  the  Vicarage  dined  at 
eight),  and  she  displayed  a  reprehensible  interest  in  the 
subject  of  Dickie. 

"He  is  a  curious  boy,"  she  said.  "But,  Ted,  I'm  sure 
he's  quite  extraordinarily  clever." 

"Yes,  I  think  he  is,"  Edward  agreed  without  interest. 
"I  can't  imagine  where  he  gets  that  roughness  of  manner 
from.  He's  too  impossible,  sometimes.  I  didn't  at  all  like 
the  way  he  spoke  to  me  this  afternoon." 

But  Helen  refused  to  be  drawn,  just  then,  into  any  ad- 
miring sympathy  with  her  husband's  peculiar  delicacy  of 
mind  and  habit. 

"I  rather  like  that  roughness  of  his,"  she  went  on 
thoughtfully.  "He's  so — isn't  'drastic'  the  word  I  want? 
I  mean  he's  so  outspoken.  It  is  such  a  relief  to  meet  brave, 
honest  people  like  that  sometimes." 


ADELA  251 

"I  suppose  you  mean  that  I'm  not,"  Edward  said. 

"I'm  not  comparing  him  with  you,  dear,"  Helen  returned, 
gently,  putting  away  from  her  the  disloyal  thought  that  her 
husband  was  somewhat  apt  to  treat  the  universe  as  a  set- 
ting for  the  jewel  of  his  own  personality. 

Edward  frowned.  "Well,  personally,  that  rudeness  of 
Dickie's  rather  riles  me,"  he  said.  "I  can't  see  the  particu- 
lar advantages  of  being — coarse." 

Helen  sighed  and  stared  at  the  fire-screen. 

"Well,  do  you?"  Edward  persisted. 

"I  didn't  think  he  was  coarse,"  Helen  said.  "And  you 
had  to  admit,  yourself,  that  he  was  right  about  the  neces- 
sity for  forgiveness." 

"Oh !  well,  I  don't  think  we  need  discuss  it  all  over  again, 
now,"  Edward  returned.  He  wanted  to  talk  about  the  prob- 
abilities of  his  getting  the  Thrapley  living  and  his  chances 
of  a  minor  canonry.  There  was  nothing  fresh  to  be  said, 
but  it  was  delightful  to  consider  the  possibility;  and  par- 
ticularly delightful  to  take  the  most  pessimistic  view  and 
to  hear  his  wife's  comforting  assurances. 

"I  wonder  if  Sir  Frederic  came  in  to-day,"  he  said  after 
a  decently  long  pause. 

"Why?"  asked  Helen  absently. 

"I  only  wondered  if  there  was  any  fresh  news,"  he  said, 
casually. 

"Father  would  have  been  sure  to  have  told  us,"  she  re- 
turned. 

"I  suppose  he  would." 

Helen  had  set  her  lips  into  an  expression  that  conveyed 
a  slight  air  of  stubbornness.  For  one  moment  Edward 
saw  in  her  face  a  faint  resemblance  to  his  mother. 

"I  think  I'd  better  go  to  my  study  and  work  for  a  bit," 
he  said.  "You  don't  seem  in  the  mood  for  conversation." 

"Very  well,  dear,"  she  agreed.  "I  was  thinking  about 
Adela  and  Dickie." 

Edward  left  the  room,  firmly  determined  that  he  would 
have  this  point  out  with  his  wife  on  some  future  occasion. 
What  the  point  was  he  was  not  quite  clear,  but  she  had 


252  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

certainly  been  wanting  in  consideration  that  evening.  When 
he  was  in  his  study,  he  sat  with  a  sheet  of  sermon  paper 
before  him,  and  found  a  dozen  different  excuses  for  his 
own  attitude  that  afternoon.  Indeed,  he  so  completely  ex- 
onerated himself  that  he  almost  went  back  to  the  drawing- 
room  to  state  his  case;  and  was  only  deterred  by  the  con- 
templation of  the  spiritual  energy  that  would  be  required 
of  him.  Nevertheless  he  was  comforted  by  the  reflection 
that  his  case  was  unimpeachable. 

He  had  no  idea  that  his  father  had  begun  his  married 
life  with  much  the  same  intentions,  procrastinations  and 
reserves. 


IX 

Adela's  letter  from  Liverpool  helped  to  soften  the  chief 
resentment  she  had  left  in  the  minds  of  her  father  and 
mother.  The  letter  was  addressed  to  Mrs.  Lynneker  this 
time,  and  the  whole  tone  of  it  displayed  an  anxiety  to 
obliterate  the  impression  that  might  have  been  created  by 
the  hasty  pencil  note  left  on  the  manual  of  the  organ. 

Adela  wanted  to  explain;  she  stated  her  want  in  those 
words ;  and  it  appeared  that  she  would  be  perfectly  happy, 
now,  if  she  could  but  wipe  away  the  impression  she  knew 
she  must  have  left  on  their  minds. 

She  came  to  that  point  at  once,  giving  it  precedence  over 
the  interesting  facts  which  her  mother  was  far  more  eager 
to  have  explained.  Mrs.  Lynneker  did  not  actually  skip 
that  explanation,  but  she  flutteringly  looked  ahead  more 
than  once,  as  if  her  patience  could  only  be  maintained  by 
the  knowledge  that  the  important  material  was  certainly 
coming  later. 

"Please  forget  that  other  letter,"  Adela  wrote.  "I  hardly 
knew  what  I  was  doing  that  morning!'  She  referred 
throughout  to  her  yesterday,  as  to  some  remote  period  of 
her  life.  "I  did  try  to  write  properly  and  I  just  could  not. 
Of  course  I  did  not  mean  a  single  thing  I  said  in  that  other 


ADELA  253 

letter,  but  I  felt  that  morning  as  if  I  never  could  make  you 
understand." 

The  most  comforting  assurance  among  these  repetitions 
was  the  implied  denial  of  Adela's  religious  manifesto.  In- 
deed, they  came  to  find  a  peculiar  solace  in  the  thought  of 
her  original  statement  of  unbelief.  They  inferred  so  much 
distress,  so  much  anxiety  and  remorse  from  that  original, 
terrible  negation.  "The  poor  child  must  have  been  nearly 
out  of  her  mind/'  as  Mrs.  Lynneker  explained. 

The  remainder  of  the  long  letter  contained  the  valuable 
news  that  they  had  been  waiting  for;  the  account  of  her 
marriage  by  license  before  the  Liverpool  registrar — the 
family  had  never  once  doubted  that  young  Oliver  would 
marry  her — and  plans  for  the  future.  They  were  to  live 
at  Toronto  where  Harry  Oliver  was  in  business  as  a  small 
contractor.  "He  used  to  be  at  Peterborough,  in  Canada,  not 
far  from  Toronto,"  she  commented.  "Isn't  it  funny? 
Fancy  my  still  being  so  near  Peterboro'!"  They  were  go- 
ing by  steamer  from  Liverpool  up  the  St.  Lawrence  to 
Montreal  and  thence  by  train ;  and  as  they  were  not  sailing 
until  Saturday,  there  would  be  just  time  for  Adela  to  re- 
ceive a  letter  of  forgiveness  from  the  Rectory.  And  at 
the  end  she  displayed  a  note  of  anxiety  concerning  the  ex- 
pectation of  that  mark  of  forgiveness.  After  the  com- 
parative jubilance  of  tone  displayed  in  the  recital  of  her 
prospects,  the  faint  wistfulnees  of  the  close  was  a  little 
pathetic.  When  the  letter  was  read,  aloud,  the  Rector 
showed  again  signs  of  emotion  at  that  final  appeal. 

There  could  be  no  question  now  of  the  family's  willing- 
ness to  forgive  her,  despite  the  bitterness  of  one  or  two 
casual  allusions  that  showed  how  quickly  Adela  had  accom- 
modated herself  to  her  new  conditions.  The  references 
to  "Frank"  and  the  whole-hearted  admission,  no  longer 
disguised,  that  he  "was  all  the  world  to  her,"  could  be  un- 
derstood in  the  circumstances ;  but  the  allusion  in  one  place 
to  "Harry"  and  the  expression  of  a  sincere  hope  that 
Frank's  father  and  mother  would  presently  join  their  chil- 
dren in  Toronto,  seemed  to  imply  a  willing  admission  of 


254  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

her  new  social  status  that  made  the  Lynnekers  frown  un- 
easily. 

Dickie  had  plenty  of  material  for  thought  in  his  survey 
of  this  intimate  presentation  of  social  differences.  He  saw 
clearly  that  if  his  father  and  mother  were  ready,  even 
anxious,  to  forgive  Adela,  they  were  by  no  means  pre- 
pared to  accept  the  Olivers  as  relations.  He  had  not  seen 
either  his  father's  or  his  mother's  letter  to  Adela,  but  he 
gathered  that  they  contained  little  explicit  reproach.  The 
fact  that  she  was  going  "all  those  thousands  of  miles"  away 
from  them — Mrs.  Lynneker  frequently  repeated  that  awful 
measure  of  distance  with  a  scared  concern — was  a  suffi- 
cient reason  for  a  thorough  setting  in  order  of  the  house 
of  charity.  She  might  never  come  back,  and  how  many 
suns  might  have  gone  down  upon  their  wrath  before  some 
probable  tragedy  made  restitution  impossible.  Edward  and 
Latimer  were  included  as  conforming  to  the  same  atti- 
tude. But  what  puzzled  Dickie  was  his  wonder  as  to  what 
was,  now,  their  real  feeling  towards  Adela.  The  four  per- 
sons concerned  might  differ  in  various  degrees,  but  he 
could  not  avoid  the  conclusion  that  if  they  were  all  un- 
equal to  the  effort  of  any  positive  dislike — a  thing  that 
irritated  and  chafed  them,  producing  the  fret  that  arose 
from  the  consciousness  of  active  antagonism — they  had 
no  longer  any  feeling  towards  Adela  that  could  be  properly 
described  as  love.  She  was  no  longer  playing  on  their  side. 
In  brief  effervescencies  of  emotion  they  might  remember 
her  as  one  of  themselves,  and  possibly  long  to  see  her 
again.  But,  in  effect,  she  had  climbed  the  ring-fence  that 
separated  the  Lynnekers  and  their  own  kind  from  all 
the  rest  of  the  world.  She  could  never  hope  again  to  find 
a  place  within  that  enclosure. 

Eleanor  remained  in  a  separate  category.  As  she  had 
been  the  first  to  profess  forgiveness  for  her  sister,  so  would 
she  be  the  last  to  experience, — if  she  could  ever  experience, 
— any  transient  emotion  during  which  she  might  momen- 
tarily recover  a  measure  of  her  old  feeling.  Possibly  she 
had  never  felt  any  love  for  Adela?  Dickie  frankly  ad- 


ADELA  255 

mitted  to  himself  that  he  could  not  understand  Eleanor.  He 
was  quite  unable  to  realise  the  motive  of  jealousy  which 
had  tortured  her;  jealousy,  not  of  the  man  her  sister  had 
so  disgracefully  chosen,  but  of  her  youth  and  independ- 
ence, and,  though  Eleanor  might  not  admit  it,  of  her 
sister's  success.  Adela,  indeed,  had  succeeded  in  an  ambi- 
tion that,  however  bitterly  Eleanor  might  deny  it  even  in 
her  lonely  communications  with  God,  was  instinctively 
her  own.  She  was  nearly  twenty-eight,  she  had  no  charm 
of  personality,  she  had  never  attempted  to  attract  a  man's 
desire  by  any  deliberate  snare  of  femininity.  But  deep 
within  her  was  a  bitter  rage  against  any  woman  who  suc- 
ceeded where  she  herself  had  failed.  She  professed  a 
faintly  disgusted  tolerance  for  small  babies;  she  would 
have  been  shocked  and  repelled  by  any  overture  of  Frank 
Oliver's;  but  subconsciously  she  envied  Adela.  And  the 
brief  intimation  of  her  own  feelings  had  so  hurt  and  hard- 
ened her  that  she  was,  as  yet,  incapable  of  finding  any 
"relief"  in  the  fact  that  Adela  had  been  permanently  re- 
moved from  Halton.  For  Eleanor's  jealousy  had  not  be- 
gun with  her  sister's  inexplicable  surrender  to  the  son  of 
the  village  carpenter.  .  .  . 

And  mingled  with  all  this  foolish  muddle  of  class  dis- 
tinctions, Dickie  was  intrigued  by  the  problem  of  his  own 
religious  professions. 

He  was  sorry,  now,  that  he  had  ever  spoken  to  Adela. 
He  felt  that  he  had  blundered,  again,  in  giving  her  a  false 
courage  that  had  enabled  her  to  dare  the  ultimate  rupture 
with  her  familiar  life.  For  he  doubted  if  that  marriage 
of  hers  would  be  a  success.  He  had  given  his  three  reasons 
in  the  drawing-room  as  speech,  manners  and  washing.  He 
remembered  the  look  of  Frank  Oliver's  hands  after  he  had 
been  French-polishing;  and  recalled  also  the  ugly  nails 
and  permanent  callosities  that  were  the  mark  of  his  breed 
and  his  trade. 

In  a  few  weeks  those  things  would  come  to  be  a  vexation 
to  Adela;  and,  very  uneasily,  Dickie  presently  came  to 
wonder  whether  Edward  had  not  been  justified  in  assert- 


256  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

ing  that  between  the  Lynnekers  and  the  Olivers  there  was 
a  difference  in  grain.  And  Frank  Oliver  was  a  masterful 
man.  Adela  would  never  break  him,  though  he  might  break 
her.  That,  certainly,  was  a  solution,  but  Dickie  intensely 
disliked  the  idea  that  Adela's  spirit  would  be  broken. 

Then  he  had  to  admit  that  if  he  had  done  badly  in  in- 
fluencing Adela's  religious  beliefs,  he  would  probably  do 
worse  by  any  profession  of  what  they  would  irrevocably 
call  "atheism"  to  his  father  and  mother,  or  his  brothers, 
or  Eleanor.  As  Adela  had  said,  they  would  never  give 
him  "a  moment's  peace.  He  would  be  talked  to  and  prayed 
over  from  morning  to  night."  They  had  the  persistence 
for  that.  They  were  so  serenely  confident  in  their  knowl- 
edge of  an  omnipotent  backing. 

He  was  not  afraid  of  that  struggle;  but  he  was  coming 
to  a  realisation  that,  strong  as  he  might  be,  the  world  of 
his  society  in  the  mass  was  stronger  still.  And  he  had 
no  mission  to  preach  to  them;  he  would  seriously  dis- 
turb the  happiness  of  his  father  and  mother,  without 
achieving  any  purpose  save  a  doubtful  consciousness  of 
his  own  integrity. 

Over  all  these  problems  there  hung  the  doubt  of  motive. 
He  felt  that  if  the  motive  were  unselfish,  almost  any  action 
might  be  justified.  Just  so  had  he  been  justified  in  his 
prosecution  of  Smith,  the  money-lender ;  whereas  Atcherley 
and  Geach  cast  a  slur  on  the  same  action  by  their  dis- 
honesty and  self-seeking. 

And  could  he  defend  the  unselfishness  of  his  own  motive 
in  this  desire  to  proclaim  himself  free  of  the  restrictions 
that  he  believed  the  Christian  religion  imposed  upon  his 
liberty  of  thought?  He  thought  not.  The  injury  to  his 
family  might  outweigh  his  own  gain. 

Nevertheless,  even  as  he  decided, — a  decision  from  which 
he  would  not  turn  back, — that  he  would  continue  to  profess 
a  decent  subservience  to  the  rule  of  the  church,  some  spirit 
within  him  sighed  with  a  long  regret.  He  had  begun  to 
settle  himself  less  rebelliously  within  the  shackles  of  the 
net,  every  strand  of  which  was  marked  with  the  brand  of 
"expediency." 


XII 
BRIAN  LESSING 


ADELA'S  disgraceful  elopement  left  a  deep  score  on 
the  Halton  system  of  chronology.  The  record  of 
Edward's  marriage  declined  by  comparison  to  the  value 
of  a  common  incident.  It  had  been  foreseen  and  prepared 
for,  and  he  had  so  long  been  associated  with  St.  Peter's 
and  the  Vicarage,  that  the  mere  establishment  of  his  rela- 
tions with  Helen  hardly  counted  as  an  event.  But  if  the 
ceremony  was  in  itself  of  small  moment,  it  had  a  par- 
ticular use  as  a  synonym.  The  Lynnekers,  as  a  family, 
did  not  speak  of  the  gross  red  line  that  had  been  ruled 
across  its  historical  chart.  When  they  looked  back  for 
some  bold  indication  to  date  a  memory,  they  ran,  as  it 
were,  a  hurrying  finger  over  the  disfigurement,  a  finger 
that  afterwards  hesitated  and  stopped  inevitably  at  the  pale 
entry  of  Edward's  wedding. 

"Oh !  don't  you  remember,"  was  the  family's  form,  "that 
was  before — before  Edward  was  married  in  the  summer 
of  '95?" 

And  the  Rector  and  his  wife  would  sigh  thoughtfully 
and  then  admit  that  they  recognised  the  validity  of  the 
mnemonic.  As  an  aid  to  memory  the  triumphant  return 
of  the  Salisbury  administration  was  quite  overshadowed.  . 

Adela  was  forgiven ;  they  had  written  to  her ;  they  were 
ready  to  speak  kindly  of  her  among  themselves.  But  she 
had  disgraced  them ;  and  they  hoped  she  and  Frank  Oliver 
(they  avoided  speaking  of  him  as  "Adela's  husband") 
would  remain  in  Canada. 

257 


258  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

Within  the  family  circle  there  were  many  variations  of 
mood.  On  certain  days  it  was  unwise  to  approach  any 
reference  to  Adela  in  the  Rector's  hearing,  for  fear  the 
allusion  might  provoke  that  nervous  irritability  which  was 
increasing  with  his  years.  On  other  days  he  would  speak  of 
her,  himself, — probably  as  our  "poor,  little  Adela" — and 
display,  perhaps,  a  slightly  maudlin  tenderness  over  some 
recollection  of  her  youth.  But  to  the  world  at  large,  even 
to  that  select  circle  of  Lynneker  equals  within  the  ring- 
fence,  the  family  were  a  shade  more  distant  than  they 
had  been.  Strangers  who  could  not  understand  that  de- 
fensive attitude,  were  apt  to  exaggerate  Helen's  original 
criticism,  the  mild  verdict  delivered  to  Dickie  in  the  stable- 
yard,  that  the  Lynnekers  were  "a  wee  bit  supercilious," 
that  they  "rather  kept  their  noses  in  the  air." 

And  yet  they  contrived  through  it  all  to  maintain  their 
tendency  to  conciliation.  Even  as  they  hardened  them- 
selves against  the  attacks  of  imagined  gossip,  they  were 
willing  and  ready  to  please.  Indeed,  that  added  touch  of 
hauteur  may  only  have  been  an  attempt  to  bear  themselves 
conformably  among  their  equals;  an  attempt  to  conciliate 
the  opinion  of  society  by  proving  that  as  a  family  they 
remained  superior  to  the  offence  of  a  single  member. 


ii 

And  seven  months  later,  that  is  to  say  in  the  early  spring 
of  1896,  they  had  to  face  yet  another  trouble  that  was 
certainly  less  outrageous  than  the  last,  but  cast  a  further 
slur  on  the  Lynneker  reputation. 

Latimer  had  publicly  announced  his  engagement  to  Mrs. 
Blackwell,  a  widow  fourteen  years  his  senior. 

To  Halton  there  was  something  a  little  unseemly  in  the 
contemplation  of  that  marriage  apart  from  all  other  con- 
siderations. The  Rector  had  fidgeted  and  frowned  when, 
four  years  before,  his  eldest  son  had  shown  an  inclination 
to  pay  attention  to  the  same  lady.  He  had  told  Mrs.  Lynne- 


BRIAN  LESSING 

ker  that  he  did  not  like  the  idea  of  so  great  a  disparity  of 
age,  on  the  wrong  side,  between  husband  and  wife.  And 
it  was  also  evident  that  he  did  not  like  Mrs.  Blackwell. 

She  was  a  dark,  handsome  woman,  growing  steadily 
stouter  as  she  aged,  who  had  come  to  live  in  Medborough  in 
the  year  of  the  first  Jubilee.  She  had  been  regarded  sus- 
piciously at  the  outset  by  that  inner  circle  of  the  Precincts 
which  it  soon  became  manifest  she  was  intently  propitiat- 
ing. The  Precincts  had  at  first  looked  down  supercili- 
ously at  her  big  house  in  the  Thrapley  Road,  just  outside 
the  town;  on  her  well-kept  gardens  and  her  victoria  with 
the  two  well-matched  bays.  No  doubt,  Mrs.  Blackwell 
was  rich,  but  she  might  prove  to  be,  also,  ostentatious  and 
vulgar.  She  had  come  to  Medborough  without  social  intro- 
ductions, and  the  Precincts  decided  to  wait. 

They  waited  for  two  years;  and  in  all  that  time  Mrs. 
Blackwell  was  not  guilty  of  a  single  faux  pas.  She  was 
called  upon  by  the  second  grade  of  Medborough  society,  led 
by  such  lesser  clergy  as  the  Principal  of  the  Training  Col- 
lege and  the  senior  assistant  master  of  the  King's  School. 
But  she  treated  all  these  callers  with  an  admirable  restraint. 
She  was  rude  to  none  of  them,  but  she  kept  them  at  a  dis- 
tance. She  showed  the  Cathedral  party  very  plainly  that 
she  had  no  intention  of  being  leader  in  any  second-class 
puddle. 

She  first  gained  admission  to  the  Close  through  old  Fol- 
liett,  the  solicitor,  the  third  son  of  Dr.  Folliett  who  had 
held  the  Bishopric  of  Medborough  from  1829  to  1843.  Old 
Folliett, — he  had  one  son  in  his  own  office  and  two  in  the 
church,  one  was  an  archdeacon  and  the  other  a  missionary 
in  China, — was  esteemed  and  trusted  as  an  arbiter  of 
social  distinctions,  and  when  he  invited  Mrs.  Blackwell 
to  dinner,  the  Precincts  began  to  consider  the  advisability 
of  leaving  cards  in  the  Thrapley  Road.  At  first  they  dis 
played  a  little  human  concern  lest  old  Folliett  should  be 
tempted  to  marry  again.  Mrs.  Blackwell  was  only  thirty 
at  that  time,  and  unquestionably  handsome  in  her  striking 
way. 


260  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

And  yet,  although  Mrs.  Blackwell  had  so  bravely  fought 
her  way  up  to  and  at  last  through  the  Palace  gates — not 
to  a  mere  diocesan  function  but  to  a  social  luncheon  party— 
the  Precincts  had  never  been  quite  easy  about  her.  They 
had  shown  signs  of  alienation  when  Edward's  brief  af- 
fection was  near  its  crisis,  and  on  one  or  two  other  occa- 
sions their  fastidious  sense  of  an  ultimate  propriety  had 
been  a  little  vexed.  They  knew  so  little  about  her  previous 
life,  and  she  gave  no  confidences.  No  one  knew  anything 
about  her  late  husband,  no  one  knew  what  her  father  had 
been.  Even  the  fact  that  she  was  a  mistress  of  the 
French  and  Italian  languages  was  regarded  with  a  shade 
of  suspicion.  (The  Bishop's  wife's  French  was  simply 
abominable.)  And  why  did  she  spend  three  months  of 
every  year  in  Italy?  She  had  never  complained  of  delicate 
health. 

The  fine  conservatism  of  the  Precincts  was  intermittently 
fretted  by  the  admission  of  Mrs.  Blackwell. 

And  they  could  not  sanction  her  engagement  to  young 
Latimer  Lynneker,  a  mere  boy  of  twenty-three,  fresh  to 
deacon's  orders. 

This  clear  mandate  coming  with  such  high  sanction  cast 
a  deeper  slur  on  the  engagement;  the  Lynnekers  were  con- 
scious of  new  disgrace,  before  they  had  had  opportunity 
to  live  down  the  old  one.  And  there  was  yet  another 
reason  for  regarding  the  affair  with  the  strongest  dis- 
approval. 

Mrs.  Blackwell  had  bought  the  advowson  of  Culver. 

No  one  at  Halton,  with  the  exception  of  Latimer,  had 
known  that  the  living  was  likely  to  come  into  the  market. 
They  had  known  that  Canon  Lynneker's  two  eldest  boys 
had  been  a  great  expense  to  him;  and  that  only  the  third 
son,  Richard,  who  had  taken  orders  and  had  a  curacy 
in  Birmingham,  was  definitely  earning  his  own  living.  But 
Culver  was  worth  eight  hundred  a  year,  and  the  Canon's 
financial  difficulties  had  never  been  taken  seriously. 

It  was  distinctly  unpleasant  to  hear  that  the  gift  of  the 
living  had  passed  out  of  the  family,  but  it  was  even  more 


BRIAN  LESSING  261 

unpleasant  to  face  the  suspicion  that  Latimer  had  been 
acting  meanly  and  even  disgracefully.  He  had  been  help- 
ing his  uncle  in  the  parish  since  January,  and  the  whole 
bargain  wore  an  aspect  of  double-dealing  (why  had  he 
never  said  a  word  to  Halton  till  the  thing  was  done?),  and 
what  was  worse,  of  a  quite  unworthy  trafficking  with  sacred 
affairs;  with  the  cure  of  souls  in  Culver  (395  at  the  last 
census)  and  with  the  divine  institution  of  marriage.  It 
was  impossible  to  avoid  the  inference  that  Mrs.  Black  well 
had  bought  Latimer  and  that  he  was  willing  to  be  bought. 
Certainly,  the  Precincts  would  make  no  effort  to  avoid  that 
inference  when  the  bargain  of  Culver  became  public  prop- 
erty. 

The  Rector  of  Halton  was  beginning  to  feel  that  the 
Lynnekers  had  fallen  on  evil  days.  He  was  in  his  seven- 
tieth year,  and  his  zest  in  life  was  steadily  failing. 
Physically  the  Lynnekers  were  a  tough  and  wiry  stock, 
but  when  they  lost  their  appreciation  of  life,  they  were 
apt  to  decline  rather  rapidly. 

In  the  early  summer  of  that  year,  the  Rector  was  become 
increasingly  anxious  that  Dickie  should  leave  the  Bank  and 
become  a  credit  to  the  family. 

Dickie  was  the  last  anchor  that  saved  the  old  boat  from 
drifting  out  with  the  ebb. 


in 

Martyn's  offer  was,  theoretically,  still  open. 

He  had  written  a  very  delicate  letter  to  his  uncle  after 
the  affaire  Oliver,  a  letter  that  had  made  the  most  tactful 
references  to  the  scandal,  and  had  underlined  Martyn's 
nice  sense  of  the  family's  superiority  to  any  transient  dis- 
grace, by  restating  his  willingness  to  do  all  that  he  had 
suggested  for  Dickie.  "Of  course,  little  Adela's  curious 
elopement  in  no  way  affects  our  plans  for  Dick,"  had  been 
his  phrase.  "I  am  still  awaiting  that  explanation  he  prom- 
ised me,"  he  had  added. 


THESE  LYNNEKERS 

Halton  was  greatly  exhilarated  by  that  letter.  The  Rector 
had  read  it  to  his  wife  and  Eleanor  in  the  middle  of  the 
morning;  and  they  both  agreed  with  his  description  of 
Martyn  as  "a  charming  fellow."  Also,  they  all  decided,  in 
conclave,  that  Dickie's  reply  must  be  supervised  by  them- 
selves. Dick  was  so  "impetuous,"  his  father  said. 

Latimer,  whose  diligent  morning  study  for  orders  had 
not  been  interrupted,  even  to  hear  the  heartening  news, 
declared  at  dinner  that  he  would  personally  superintend, 
and  might  possibly  draft,  Dickie's  answer.  "Pig-headed," 
was  the  adjective  he  found  for  his  brother,  a  description 
that  was  accepted  with  little  less  reserve  than  the  Rector's 
"impetuous"  had  been.  Either  adjective  seemed  to  fit  well 
enough  at  the  time,  although  taken  together  they  might 
have  been  judged  to  lack  consonance. 

The  four  of  them  were  almost  united  in  their  attack 
upon  Dickie  at  supper,  and  Latimer  was  so  far  emboldened 
by  the  support  of  the  flock  that  he  actually  put  his  morn- 
ing's proposition  into  words. 

"Look  here,  Dick,  will  you  let  me  rough  out  an  answer  ?" 
he  asked. 

The  pig-headed,  impetuous  Dickie  grinned  as  if  his  broth- 
er's suggestion  amused  him. 

"Will  you  be  able  to  explain  exactly  wftat  I  feel  about 
being  a  barrister  and  standing  for  Parliament  and  all  that  ?" 
he  returned. 

"My  dear  chap,"  Latimer  said,  "if  you  take  my  advice, 
you  won't  say  a  word  about  your  opinions." 

"I  hardly  think  it  necessary,  in  the  first  instance/'  the 
Rector  put  in  gravely. 

And  Mrs.  Lynneker  added,  albeit  with  a  shade  of  doubt 
on  her  face,  ' Mu^t  you  go  into  all  that,  dear?  You  know 
you  might  so  easily  change  your  mind  afterwards." 

"I  should  have  thought  you  could  try  it  and  see,  in  any 
case,"  was  Eleanor's  contribution. 

Dickie  put  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  stared  past  them 
all,  trying  to  visualise,  not  the  problem  of  what  he  should 
say  to  Martyn,  but  that  of  the  impossibility  of  getting  any 


BRIAN  LESSING  263 

kind  of  reaction  to  his  idea  from  his  family.  They  knew 
he  was  not  a  fool,  and  yet  they  never  attempted  to  under- 
stand him. 

"Would  it  be  fair  to  Martyn,"  he  asked,  "if  I  let  him 
spend  money  on  me  and  then  decided  that  I  couldn't  go 
on  with  the  thing?" 

Latimer  snorted.  "You'd  jolly  well  have  to  go  on,"  he 
said. 

"That's  what  I  feel,"  Dickie  replied.  "And  you  see,  I 
don't  feel  inclined  to  pledge  myself  to  that  extent." 

"It  isn't  only  yourself  that  you  have  to  consider,"  put  in 
Eleanor. 

"But  what  is  it  precisely,  Dick,  that  you're  afraid  of?" 
his  father  asked. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  forced  into  one  particular  line  of 
thought,"  he  said. 

"What  rot!"  mumftled  Latimer,  and  Dickie  could  not 
doubt  that  however  various  might  be  the  expression  of 
conviction,  his  brother  had  given  a  shape  to  the  beliefs  of 
his  family.  For  them,  in  religion,  in  politics,  at  the  back 
of  all  their  social  judgments,  there  was  but  one  line  of 
thought  worthy  of  acceptance;  the  others  were  tainted  by 
those  detestable  spirits  of  "atheism"  and  radicalism. 

"Really,  I  can't  understand  your  difficulty,"  his  father 
was  saying,  peevishly. 

His  mother  looked  disturbed  and  grieved.  She  was  mani- 
festly afraid  that  the  Devil  had  been  busy  again,  tempting 
her  son  with  doubts  of  the  great,  eternal  truths — "a  lying 
spirit  in  the  mouth  of  his  prophets"  was  a  quotation  that 
hung  vaguely  in  her  mind. 

Latimer  preferred  to  keep  to  the  safer  ground  of  po- 
litical life.  "Do  you  propose  to  become  a  radical ;  or  a  so- 
cialist, perhaps?"  he  asked,  as  if  he  would  tempt  his  brother 
into  the  confession  of  some  absurdity. 

"I  don't  know,  yet,  you  see,"  explained  Dickie. 

"Good  Heavens!"  ejaculated  Latimer.  (He  had  dropped 
his  favourite  "Good  Lord!"  as  slightly  irreverent  for  one 
so  soon  to  be  ordained  deacon.) 


264  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

The  Rector  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  a  sigh  of 
despair. 

"But  my  dear  boy  .  .  ."  he  expostulated. 

Dickie  realised  that  he  must  be  a  great  trial  to  his  family. 
He  could  begin  no  argument,  no  explanation  of  his  own 
attitude  without  challenging  some  fixed,  inalterable  prin- 
ciple that  dominated  the  very  character  of  their  minds. 
And  he  saw  that  he  faced  the  same  crisis  which  had  threat- 
ened him  when  he  was  compelled  to  abate  something  of 
his  honest  intention  in  the  matter  of  his  religious  doubts. 
Now,  again,  his  choice  lay  between  sincerity  and  some 
sacrifice  of  his  own  conscience  for  the  sake  of  his  father 
and  mother.  They  could  not  understand  his  doubts,  whether 
religious  or  sociological;  they  could  not  appreciate  the 
radical  quality  of  his  desire  to  understand  the  meaning  and 
reason  of  life.  There  was  some  difference  of  fibre  between 
his  mind  and  theirs.  They  accepted,  he  questioned.  But 
he  questioned,  as  he  believed,  with  good  cause  and  not  from 
any  foolish  tendency  to  upset  for  the  sake  of  upsetting. 
Indeed,  he  had  had  little  wish  to  impress  his  own  opin- 
ions on  other  minds ;  he  was  too  doubtful  of  the  validity  of 
his  deductions.  If  he  had  found  any  satisfaction  in  his 
family's  theory  of  life,  he  would  gladly  have  accepted  it. 
But  the  more  he  examined  it,  the  more  clearly  he  saw  that 
their  theory  did  not  work.  It  was  a  ready-made  answer 
like  the  misprint  in  Latimer's  algebra  key;  and  by  no 
juggling  of  figures  could  it  be  forced  to  satisfy  the  equa- 
tion. They  had  all  so  placidly  accepted  the  printed  an- 
swer. It  was  an  answer  that  suited  their  temper,  and 
now  they  would  defend  its  accuracy  with  an  utter  convic- 
tion of  its  absolute  truth.  As  he  looked  across  at  his 
brother,  Dickie  felt  inclined  to  repeat  his  old  assertion 
and  say:  "But  19  won't  work,  Latimer." 

The  alternative  was  to  admit  a  second  time  the  necessity 
for  some  measure  of  compromise. 

"Well,  it  isn't  much  good  trying  to  discuss  my  political 
opinions  when  I  haven't  got  any,"  he  said.  "Let's  get  back 
to  the  question  of  what  I'm  to  say  to  cousin  Martyn." 


BRIAN  LESSING  265 

He  looked  at  Latimer  as  he  spoke  and  it  was  his  brother 
who  answered  on  behalf  of  the  family. 

"Exactly.  And  if  you  haven't  got  any  political  opin- 
ions, I  don't  quite  see  why  you  shouldn't  accept  his  offer 
without  all  sort  of  idiotic  quibbles  and  objections.  We've 
always  been  .  conservatives, — as  a  family,  I  mean.  Isn't 
conservatism  good  enough  for  you,  or  what?" 

"It  seems  to  me  so  horribly  prejudiced,"  Dickie  said. 

"Prejudiced?    In  what  way?"  his  father  asked  sharply. 

Dickie  turned  his  head  and  looked  at  him,  with  that 
steady,  honest  gaze  of  his  which  was  so  exceedingly  dis- 
concerting. The  Lynnekers  could  never  argue  without  the 
stimulus  of  losing  their  tempers,  and  Dickie's  calm  dia- 
lectic gave  them  a  sense  of  inferiority. 

"Well,  I'm  sorry,  pater,"  he  said,  trying  to  be  particu- 
larly clear  and  reasonable,  "but  I  can't  see,  for  instance, 
why  you're  so  frightfully  down  on  Gladstone  .  .  ." 

He  would  have  gone  on  to  explain  his  reasons  for  that 
opinion,  but  no  opportunity  was  allowed  him.  In  one 
sentence  he  had  denied  all  those  eternal  verities  which 
constituted  the  faith  and  profession  of  his  family. 

The  Rector  pushed  back  his  chair  with  the  same  gesture 
of  finality  with  which  Edward  had  upset  the  salt. 

"Upon  my  soul,  Dick,  I've  no  patience  with  you,"  he 
said,  and  left  the  room. 

Mrs.  Lynneker  sighed.  Eleanor's  thin  mouth  was  set 
in  an  expression  that  summarised  twenty  generations  of 
Lynneker  disapproval.  Latimer  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  almost  imperceptibly  tossed  his  head ;  he  did  not  speak, 
but  every  line  of  him  was  calling  the  universe  to  witness 
that  Dickie  was  "a  young  ass."  - 


IV 

Dickie  went  up  to  his  own  room,  and  sat  down  to  write 
his  letter  to  Martyn.  He  had  intended  to  be  very  clear 
in  his  presentation  of  the  whole  question;  to  explain  his 


266  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

position  and  leave  it  to  his  cousin  to  decide  whether  he 
would  venture  upon  the  task  of  training  him  for  a  profes- 
sion he  might  subsequently  refuse  to  pursue. 

But  when  he  began  to  write,  he  found  a  sense  of  pleasure 
and  relief  in  stating  all  those  things  his  father  would 
never  allow  him  to  say  in  words. 

"You  see,  Martyn,"  he  wrote,  when  he  got  into  his 
swing  after  a  rather  stilted  opening,  "I  can't  believe  that 
there  is  any  absolute  answer  to  this  particular  question  of 
whether  we  should  be  a  Radical  or  a  Conservative,  any 
more  than  I  can  believe  that  one  religious  sect  is  neces- 
sarily absolutely  right  and  all  the  others  wrong.  Of 
course,  you  will  say  that  it  is  more  expedient  for  me  to 
become  a  Conservative,  but  that  would  mean  just  shutting 
off  half  my  mind  and  ideas,  and  I'm  not  willing  to  do  that. 
I  don't  suppose  I  shall  ever  learn  a  thousandth  part  of 
the  whole  truth  about  what  we  are  and  what  our  work 
ought  to  be ;  no  one  ever  has,  I  suppose,  or  else  we  should 
be  more  in  agreement  about  fundamental  facts.  But  what 
I  won't  do  is  to  throw  in  my  lot  with  one  limited  set  of 
opinions,  and  be  prepared  to  swear  blind  that  any  one 
who  doesn't  agree  with  me  is  the  most  infernal  blackguard 
and  traitor  that  was  ever  born.  That  really  isn't  much 
of  an  exaggeration.  I  don't  know  much  about  politics, 
but  it  seems  pretty  obvious  that  the  principal  game  is  to 
slang  the  other  side  for  all  your  worth,  if  you  want  to 
make  any  impression. 

Well,  that  isn't  a  bit  my  line,  you  know ;  but,  as  I've  just 
said,  I'm  fearfully  ignorant  about  these  things,  and  I  dare- 
say if  you  and  I  could  have  a  long  talk,  you  might  be  able 
to  show  me  some  way  out  of  this  initial  difficulty.  I  have 
no  objection  to  politics  qua  politics,  you  understand,  but 
I  feel  pretty  sure  that  if  I  went  in  for  them,  I  should  have 
to  follow  a  line  of  my  own;  and  the  point  is  whether  you 
would  care  to  take  me  on,  on  those  terms. 

The  pater  and  mater  and  Latimer  and  Eleanor  all  want 
me  to  write  and  just  accept  your  offer  on  your  own  terms ; 
but  I'm  sure  you  would  not  want  me  to  do  that,  and  even 


BRIAN  LESSING  267 

if  I  did,  I  couldn't  keep  it  up  for  half  a  week  after  I  was 
in  town.  Do  you  care  to  take  the  risk  I  mentioned?  I 
notice  that  I  haven't  once  said  how  jolly  good  it  was  of 
you  to  make  the  offer  at  all,  but  you  will  take  that  for 
granted,  won't  you,  I  mean  how  grateful  I  am. 

My  people  wanted  me  to  talk  this  letter  over  with  them, 
but  I  couldn't  very  well  do  that  You  know  I  quite 
understand  their  position  in  a  way.  They  have  always 
been  brought  up  to  believe  in  the  church  and  the  Con- 
servative party,  and  they  are  quite  convinced  that  they 
are  right  about  them;  and  I  think  they  are  up  to  a  point. 
I  can  see  that  it  would  make  them  miserable  and  do  no 
kind  of  good  if  I  were  able  (which  I  certainly  am  not) 
to  shake  their  faith  in  these  things.  I  don't  want  to  do 
that;  I  only  want  to  understand  (to  a  certain  extent,  of 
course)  how  things  work,  if  you  know  what  I  mean  .  .  ." 

Down  in  the  drawing-room,  the  Rector  after  an  impatient 
moment  of  delay, — the  two  maids  were  standing  reverently 
expectant  before  their  usual  seats, — asked  his  wife  if  Dick 
were  coming  down  to  prayers. 

"I  haven't  seen  him  since  supper,"  she  said  defensively, 
as  if  she  had  been  accused  of  being  privy  to  her  son's 
absence. 

"Sulking,  I   suppose,"  murmured  Latimer. 

"Shall  I  call  him,  sir?"  asked  the  housemaid. 

The  Rector  shook  his  head.  "You  can  shut  the  door," 
he  said. 

He  was  aware  of  a  feeling  of  loneliness.  He  looked  up 
at  the  engraving  of  Gordon  and  chose  the  hymn.  "Abide 
with  me,"  he  said.  They  all  knew  the  number. 


Dickie's  general  conduct  in  connexion  with  the  letter  to 
Martyn  seemed  to  justify  either  his  father's  or  his  brother's 
adjective  impartially. 

Latimer  maintained  that  pigheadedness  alone  could  ac- 


268  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

count  for  Dickie's  treatment  of  the  situation.  The  young 
idiot  had  refused  the  help  of  his  seniors  and  written  and 
posted  his  letter  without  showing  it  to  a  single  member 
of  his  family,  any  one  of  whom,  presumably,  could  have 
given  him  very  sound  and  useful  advice. 

Mr.  Lynneker,  as  soon  as  he  had  recovered  from  the 
shock  to  his  political  sensibilities,  found  an  excuse  for  all 
his  boy's  vagaries  in  the  thought  of  the  word  "impetuous." 
Much  might  be  forgiven  on  that  score.  The  boy  was  un- 
questionably clever  and  he  was  not  yet  twenty-one.  Youth 
was  apt  to  be  misled  by  its  own  abilities.  He  would  settle 
down  as  he  gathered  experience. 

And  the  reply  from  Martyn  that  came  a  week  later  largely 
vindicated  Dickie's  conduct  of  the  affair  by  proving  that 
his  admirable  cousin  had  not,  as  yet,  been  offended. 

The  offer  was  still  open,  although  "unhappily  somewhat 
deferred,"  as  Martyn  explained.  He  was  going  out,  with 
a  returning  consul,  to  Japan  in  the  following  January,  he 
told  them,  and  might  be  away  for  six  months  or  even 
longer.  His  own  object  was  in  no  sense  political  and  it 
was  still  possible  that  he  might  change  his  mind,  but  he 
had  always  had  a  curious  interest  in  Japan,  and  his  friend's 
suggestion  that  they  should  take  the  voyage  together  had 
at  last  turned  the  balance  in  favour  of  making  the  effort. 
The  effort,  he  added,  was  due  to  the  fact  that  he  was  a 
horribly  bad  sailor,  but  he  was  afraid  that  if  he  waited 
until  the  Russian  railway  was  built,  he  might  never  go  at 
all.  He  made  little  direct  reference  to  the  matter  of  Dickie's 
letter,  but  the  tone  of  his  reply  hinted  that  he  anticipated 
no  difficulties  in  coming  to  an  amicable  arrangement  with 
regard  to  his  young  cousin's  "critical  views  on  political 
methods,"  a  hint  that  endorsed  the  Rector's  opinion  with 
regard  to  Dickie's  probable  growth  towards  orthodoxy. 
Without  doubt,  he  would  settle  down  presently. 

The  family  took  fresh  hope  from  that  letter  and  marked 
a  hypothetical  but  highly  entertaining  date  on  their  next 
year's  calendar.  "When  Martyn  came  back  from  Japan," 
many  wonderful  things  were  to  happen. 


BRIAN  LESSING  269 

They  canvassed  the  advisability  of  approaching  Mr.  Bell 
with  a  question  as  to  whether  he  would  allow  Dickie  to 
leave  at  the  end  of  four  years.  Martyn  would  almost  cer- 
tainly be  home  again  by  the  following  October,  and  it 
might  be  well,  Mr.  Lynneker  thought,  to  prepare  the  way 
for  taking  up  his  offer. 

Dickie's  own  attitude  was  the  one  depressing  influence. 

"You  ought  to  be  satisfied  now,  I  should  think/'  Latimer 
said.  "You've  made  your  own  terms,  apparently,  and  got 
everything  your  own  way." 

"Oh!  yes,  if  it  ever  comes  off,"  Dickie  said,  thought- 
fully. 

"But  Martyn  has  practically  promised,"  Latimer  re- 
monstrated. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Dickie  returned,  "but  it's  about  some- 
thing a  year  ahead." 

They  all  attacked  him  for  his  insinuation  against  Mar- 
tyn's  probity,  and  he  did  not  explain  his  reasons  for  doubt- 
ing his  cousin's  good  faith ;  but  already  Dickie  had  seen 
evidences  of  the  family  spirit  in  Martyn.  Would  not  any 
of  the  Halton  or  the  Culver  Lynnekers  be  willing  to  prom- 
ise any  concession,  if  no  fulfilment  were  expected  for  twelve 
months  ?  And  why  had  not  Martyn  boldly  faced  the  argu- 
ment of  Dickie's  letter,  instead  of  hinting  the  probability 
that  they  would  inevitably  come  to  some  form  of  com- 
promise ? 

VI 

The  great  events  that  were  to  succeed  Martyn's  home- 
coming were  still  a  matter  of  hope  and  faith  at  the  be- 
ginning of  October,  1896.  Dickie  was  twenty-one  and  fac- 
ing the  last  of  his  five  years  at  the  City  &  County,  when 
Mr.  Bell  offered  to  raise  his  salary  with  a  leap  to  £130  a 
year  and  give  him  the  responsible  post  of  head-cashier. 

"It's  quite  an  exceptional  offer,  Lynneker,"  Mr.  Bell 
explained ;  "we  have  never  put  any  man  under  twenty- 
six  in  such  a  position  before;  but  .  .  ."  he  smiled  with  an 


270  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

unusual  intimacy  as  he  added,  "You  are  quite  an  exceptional 
clerk." 

"I  don't  mean  to  stick  to  banking,  you  know,  sir,"  Dickie 
said. 

"It  will  be  a  great  pity,  a  great  pity  if  you  do  not," 
Mr.  Bell  advised  him.  "I  may  tell  you  in  the  strictest 
confidence  that  your  advance  is  practically  assured.  I 
can't  hope  to  keep  you  here,  of  course, — I  have  heard,  un- 
officially, that  you  will  be  transferred  to  London,  next  year 
— you  have  splendid  chances  before  you,  Lynneker — you 
are  already  a  marked  man  in  the  service  .  .  ."  He  hesi- 
tated, feeling  that  little  more  temptation  could  be  needed, 
before  he  concluded,  "You  may  well  be  earning  a  thousand 
a  year  before  you  are  forty." 

"But  I  don't  particularly  want  to  earn  a  thousand  a 
year,"  Dickie  explained. 

Mr.  Bell's  smile  was  more  patronising  this  time. 

"Ah!  well,  you  are  very  young  yet,  Lynneker,"  he  said. 
"We'll  see  what  you  have  to  say  on  that  score  in  twelve 
months'  time;  meanwhile,  I  suppose  you're  prepared  to 
stay  on  with  us  for  the  last  year  of  your  agreement,  and 
to  take  Bradshaw's  place — you  had  heard  he  was  leaving 
us? — and,"  his  smile  became  faintly  ironical,  "to  accept  my 
offer  of  a  considerable  rise?" 

"Yes,  of  course,  sir,"  Dickie  agreed;  "if  it  is  on  the 
clear  understanding  that  I  don't  pledge  myself  to  stay 
beyond  the  five  years." 

"Certainly,  of  course,"  Mr.  Bell  said.  He  had  no  doubt 
in  his  own  mind  that  when  the  time  came  his  protege  would 
accept  the  offer  that  would  be  made  to  him. 

As  he  passed  to  his  own  seat,  Dickie  thumped  Bradshaw 
familiarly  on  the  back. 

"Secretive  bounder,"  he  whispered,  "why  didn't  you  tell 
me  you  were  going?" 

Bradshaw  glanced  nervously  at  the  two  juniors.  "Will 
you  come  and  have  tea  at  Hopkinson's  ?"  he  asked.  He  and 
Dickie  shared  responsibility,  now;  and  they  could  never 
be  out  together  in  the  middle  of  the  day. 


BRIAN  LESSING  271 

"All  serene/'  Dickie  agreed.  .  .  . 

Bradshaw  reserved  his  story — an  almost  tangible  air  of 
mystery  hung  about  him  as  they  had  tea — until  he  was 
safely  alone  with  Dickie  in  the  desecrated  cloisters ;  two  of 
its  sides  were  never  used  by  the  ordinary  wayfarer  whose 
business  led  him  from  the  Yard  to  the  Close.  And  even 
when  he  was  facing  that  deserted  walk,  Bradshaw  evi- 
denced a  marked  reluctance  to  begin  his  confidence. 

"You  see,  old  man,"  he  said,  "I  don't  suppose  you'll  hardly 
credit  it,  but  I'm — I'm  hoping  to  get  married,"  and  he 
looked  searchingly  and  with  a  sensitive  contraction  of  his 
little  button  mouth  at  Dickie  to  see  if  even  his  quiet  ac- 
ceptance of  all  peculiarities  would  carry  him  over  this 
grotesque  announcement. 

"Good  for  you,"  Dickie  said ;  "but  it  hardly  seems  a  rea- 
son for  leaving  the  Bank.  Do  I  know  her?" 

Bradshaw  drew  up  his  narrow  figure  with  an  air  of 
relief,  almost  of  pride. 

"You're  the  only  fellow  I  know,  Lynneker,"  he  said, 
"that  I'd  really  like  to  call  my  friend." 

"Rot,"  commented  Dickie.    "Who's  the  lady?" 

"I  have  mentioned  her  to  you  before,"  Bradshaw  said, 

"She's  been  giving  me  lessons  on  the  pianofort — on  the 
piano,  I  should  say." 

"Oh!  Miss  Young?"  put  in  Dickie. 

"Lord!  What  a  memory  you've  got,  old  man,"  Brad- 
shaw remarked  admiringly. 

"I've  heard  of  her  more  than  once,  you  know,"  Dickie 
explained.  "When  am  I  to  meet  her?" 

"As  soon  as  you  like,"  Bradshaw  said.  "Care  to  come 
up  there,  now  ?  It's  only  in  the  Dogsthorpe  Road.  They've 
heard  a  lot  about  you,  I  can  tell  you.  I  told  Ruth,"  he 
stammered  shyly  over  the  name,  "that  I  should  bring  you 
up  one  afternoon." 

"All  serene,"  Dickie  returned  cheerfully.  "But  why  leave 
the  Bank?"  he  asked  as  they  turned  back  towards  the 
Cathedral  Yard.  "Or  have  you  only  been  transferred  ?" 

"Well,    that    wants    explaining,    too,"    Bradshaw    said. 


THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"You  see,  Miss  Young,"  he  evidently  felt  safer  with  that 
description,  "is  a  year  or  two  older  than  me  and  a  very 
great  dea}  cleverer;  I've  decided,  at  last,  to  take  up  the 
other  line." 

"Entertaining?"  put  in  Dickie. 

"That  sort  of  thing,"  Bradshaw  acknowledged.  "I  feel 
pretty  sure  it's  right,  too,"  he  went  on.  "She  understands. 
She's  a  lot  too  good  for  me,  of  course,  every  way  .  .  ." 

"And  how  are  you  going  to  begin?" 

"We  talk  of  giving  a  combined  concert  at  the  Drill  Hall. 
In  fact,  we've  booked  a  date  for  the  middle  of  November, 
and  the  bills  are  being  printed.  She'll  carry  the  thing 
through; — she's  very  wonderful,  Lynneker, — and  I  expect 
I'll  be  all  right  after  the  first  go  off.  You  see,  I'm  not 
nervous  in  the  ordinary  way,  old  man, — funny  that,  isn't 
it? — I  mean  that  I  shan't  care  a  cuss  when  I'm  up  on  the 
platform,  I  know  I  can  make  'em  laugh  all  right.  It  isn't 
that.  You  remember  what  I've  said  to  you,  though,  about 
not  caring  for  the  job  in  one  way.  Silly,  really,  I  sup- 
pose. But  there  you  are.  She's  agreed  with  me  all  along. 
I've  had  to  persuade  her  into  this  business,  so  there  must 
be  something  in  it.  Only,  you  know,  she's  a  year  or  two 
older  than  me,  and  we  don't  want  to  wait  for  ever,  and  I'm 
not  going  to  marry  her  on  two-fifteen  a  week — that's  about 
what  it  works  out  at.  And  it's  funny,  but  I  know  I  can 
make  money  at  the  other  thing." 

"I  don't  see  any  earthly  reason  why  you  shouldn't  go 
in  for  entertaining,"  Dickie  said. 

"I  know  you  don't,"  Bradshaw  agreed.  "That's  had 
a  lot  of  weight  with  me,  too.  But  it  isn't  altogether  a  thing 
you  can  argue  about.  Damn  silly  of  me,  that's  all.  I  am 
rather  a  damn  silly  cuss  someways.  What  she  can  see  in 
me,  I  don't  know." 

As  they  walked  up  the  Dogsthorpe  Road, — Miss  Young 
and  her  mother  lived  in  one  of  the  small  houses  at  the 
far  end, — Dickie  was  aware  of  a  desire  to  defend  his 
companion — not  against  the  criticism  and  laughter  of  the 
crowd  at  the  Drill  Hall,  but  against  the  woman  he  was 


BRIAN  LESSING  273 

going  to  marry.  Why  had  she  given  way  and  let  Brad- 
shaw  sacrifice  his  scruples?  In  order  that  she  might 
live  in  greater  ease?  Dickie  suddenly  pictured  her  with 
selfish  eyes  and  a  sharp  chin ;  a  designing  creature  plotting 
to  escape  the  limitations  of  her  hard-working  gentility. 
Instinctively,  Dickie  felt  the  need  to  protect  Bradshaw  from 
this  snare,  even  as  he  had  sought  to  release  his  mother  or 
old  Mrs.  Barrett  from  the  cramps  of  the  Medborough  Loan 
Company. 

And  then  the  contrast  between  his  picture  and  his  first 
sight  of  Miss  Young  was  so  grotesque  that  for  one  moment 
he  could  not  realise  that  he  was  actually  shaking  hands  with 
the  woman  he  had  come  to  see.  When  he  had  recovered 
from  his  amazement,  he  could  have  shouted  with  happy 
laughter. 

She  was  broad  and  short,  almost  squat,  with  wide,  ear- 
nest grey  eyes  and  brown  hair  that  grew  low  on  her  fore- 
head. Certainly  she  was  not  beautiful,  but  the  sweet  in- 
tentness  of  her  generous  smile  was  compensation  for  any 
physical  short-coming.  This  was  a  woman  whom  every 
one  must  trust. 

And  she  manifestly  adored  Bradshaw  even  as  he  adored 
her.  They  so  admired  and  respected  each  other  that  Brad- 
shaw's  long  silence  respecting  their  engagement — it  trans- 
pired presently  that  they  had  been  engaged  for  over  three 
years — was  suddenly  comprehensible.  He  had  not  dared 
to  expose  so  fine  a  devotion  to  any  chance  of  possible 
ridicule.  It  may  have  been  that  his  recent  shrinking  from 
the  advertisement  of  his  own  peculiarities  had  had  its 
origin  in  this  source — he  had  winced  at  the  thought  of  dis- 
playing Ruth  Young's  chosen  lover  as  a  mere  clown.  From 
that  to  the  thought  of  thankfulness  to  God  for  such  as 
He  had  given,  was  a  short  step. 

Dickie  felt  a  sense  of  relief  in  the  companionship  of 
those  two  lovers.  They  touched  the  reality  that  uncon- 
sciously he  was  always  seeking;  they  gave  him  an  answer 
to  one  of  his  many  problems.  He  could  not  accuse  them 
of  offering  palliations  to  expediency.  Either  was  imper- 


274  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

furbably  ready  for  any  personal  sacrifice.  He  understood 
that  with  them  he  could  be  utterly  frank.  He  told  them 
of  the  vision  he  had  had  in  the  Dogsthorpe  Road. 

Miss  Young  did  not  laugh.  Her  wide  eyes  became  very 
grave  and  earnest  as  she  said, 

"And  you  wanted  to  protect  Mark  from  me?" 

Dickie  grinned.  "I'm  always  blundering  into  that  sort 
of  mistake,"  he  explained. 

"I  wish  every  one  blundered  like  that,"  Miss  Young  said, 
looking  at  Dickie  with  immense  approval.  "I  often  wanted 
Mark  to  tell  you  about  us.  He's  always  talking  of  you 
and  I've  thought  that  you  couldn't  be  as  nice  as  he  said 
you  were  or  else  he  would  have  told  you." 

"You  were  quite  right,  of  course,"  muttered  Bradshaw. 

"He's  a  rotter,"  Dickie  said  genially. 

"He  certainly  is,  in  this  case,"  Ruth  agreed. 

Bradshaw  blushed  at  the  flattery  of  attention  he  was 
receiving. 

"I've  told  Lynneker  about  the  concert,"  he  said  by  way 
of  diverting  the  conversation. 

"And  you  agree  that  it's  the  best  thing  to  do,  don't 
you?"  put  in  Ruth  eagerly.  "Mark  is  so  sensitive  about 
it,  and  I  haven't  wanted  him  to  go  in  for  entertaining — we 
could  quite  well  have  got  married  on  a  hundred  and  forty 
a  year  and  I  could  have  gone  on  teaching,  but  he  wouldn't. 
He  says  he  has  been  silly  about  that;  about  what  he  calls 
making  an  exhibition  of  himself,  and  that  he  ought  to  have 
begun  long  ago.  But  do  you  think  he  will  really  like  it 
when  it  comes  to  the  point  ?" 

They  both  looked  at  Dickie  as  to  an  oracle. 

"He'll  be  all  right,"  Dickie  returned  with  conviction; 
and  the  Lynneker  cliche  had  a  new  force ;  it  was  no  longer 
the  expression  of  a  feeble  procrastination,  but  a  ringing 
prophecy. 

Ruth  and  Bradshaw  looked  at  each  other  with  happy 
relief.  They  had  so  often  debated  the  problem  and  now 
it  seemed  that  it  was  finally  solved  for  them  by  this  one 
bold  announcement. 


BRIAN  LESSING  275 

"Anyway,  you've  pretty  well  burnt  your  boats,"  Dickie 
added ;  "given  notice  to  the  Bank,  booked  the  Hall  and  that 
sort  of  thing." 

"Yes,  I  know  we  had.  We  thought  we  must  do  some- 
thing desperate  to  settle  it,"  Ruth  said.  "But  we  were  still 
a  little  uneasy ;  and,  now,  you've  convinced  us." 

"Hooray,"  Dickie  said.    "We'll  all  come,  of  course." 

"Do  you  think  the  Cathedral  people  .  .  .   ?"  began  Ruth. 

"Rather,"  Dickie  interrupted  her.  He  felt  equal  to  lead- 
ing in  the  Bishop  by  the  nose  if  necessary.  He  might  not 
be  able  to  persuade  Edward  or  Latimer — he  could  hear 
their  excuses — but  he  would  get  the  others. 

"I'll  begin  with  the  Dean,"  he  said.  "He's  been  rather 
decent  to  me  once  or  twice  lately,  in  the  Cathedral  Library." 
He  would  have  gone  immediately  if  they  had  had  the 
tickets  ready  for  him. 

He  had  lifted  the  prospects  of  their  concert  out  of  the 
hesitation  that  had  perceptibly  clouded  their  immediate  hap- 
piness. He  had  made  their  venture  appear  a  splendid 
enterprise.  They  talked  no  more  of  Bradshaw's  scruples, 
but  of  his  coming  fame.  They  remembered  that  Corney 
Grain  had  stayed  the  night  as  an  honoured  guest  in  the 
house  of  Archdeacon  Fortescue  the  winter  before. 

"But  I'll  have  to  be  very  careful  with  my  show  if  the 
Cathedral  people  are  coming,"  Bradshaw  said.  "I'd  been 
thinking  rather  of  the  shop-keepers  and  that  lot.  I'm  not 
sure,  dear,  whether  I  won't  rough  out  another  sketch  in- 
stead of  that  one  I  told  you  about." 

The  artist  in  Bradshaw  was  all  alight. 

"He's  tremendously  clever  at  getting  ideas  and  things, 
you  know,"  was  Ruth's  chorus.  "He  can  even  make  me 
laugh  when  he  wants  to." 

"Well,  of  course,"  agreed  Dickie.  "It's  a  gift  with 
him.  .  .  ." 

And  yet,  as  he  rode  home  he  had  one  passing  moment 
of  doubt  as  to  whether  those  two  fond  lovers  would  not 
have  found  greater  happiness  on  £140  a  year  than  they 
would  in  a  future,  however  successful,  founded  on  Brad- 


276  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

shaw's  gift  for  making  laughter.  It  came  to  him  that 
his  friend  might  lose  something  in  the  applause  that  awaited 
him. 


VII 

At  the  end  of  October,  when  the  bills  and  tickets  for  the 
Bradshaw  Concert  were  printed  and  delivered,  Dickie  un- 
dertook his  canvass  of  the  Precincts  with  the  same  eager- 
ness and  determination  that  he  had  displayed  in  his  attack 
upon  the  Loan  Company.  On  this  occasion  he  was  not 
worried  by  the  ethic  of  his  endeavour,  he  had  not  again 
reverted  to  his  doubt  concerning  the  ultimate  betterment 
of  his  friend ;  and  would  not,  in  any  case,  have  trusted  his 
own  judgment  on  so  obscure  a  matter.  He  regarded  his 
advocacy  of  the  Bradshaw  cause  as  the  obvious  thing  for 
him  to  do,  and  he  took  a  great  pleasure  in  doing  it. 

His  success  was  not  due  to  any  special  virtue  of  per- 
sistence, but  to  his  lack  of  self-consciousness  and  to  his 
convincing  manner  of  advertising  Bradshaw's  qualifica- 
tions as  a  man  and  an  entertainer. 

"Certainly,  I  will  take  tickets,  Lynneker,"  the  Dean  said 
without  the  least  hesitation  when  he  was  canvassed  in  the 
Cathedral  Library  one  Thursday  afternoon. 

"But  you'll  come,  too,  sir,  won't  you?"  Dickie  insisted. 
"It  isn't  really  the  money  they  want  so  much  as  the  eclat. 
And  I  should  immensely  like  you  to  see  him,  sir,"  he  con- 
cluded. 

Before  he  escaped,  the  Dean  had  promised  both  his 
personal  attendance  and  his  active  patronage.  He  had 
promised  to  mention  the  Concert  to  his  friends. 

Dickie  had  hopes  of  getting  the  Bishop. 

And  after  that  there  was  no  trouble,  even  with  Edward 
and  Latimer.  The  Bradshaw  venture  had  been  made  a 
Cathedral  function,  and  every  one  who  counted,  or  wished 
to  count,  was  anxious  to  be  seen  there.  The  modest  pro- 
posal of  two  rows  of  five  shilling  seats  was  soon  shown  to 
be  absurdly  inadequate.  Eventually  they  had  seven. 


BRIAN  LESSING  277 

"Oh!  don't  thank  me,  thank  the  Dean— he  did  it  all," 
expostulated  Dickie,  embarrassed  by  the  gratitude  of  his 
two  friends. 

"But  you  did  the  Dean,"  Bradshaw  said,  and  Ruth  had 
a  long  accusation  of  other  work  done  that  Dickie  could 
not  defend.  After  he  had  made  sure  of  the  five-shilling 
seats,  he  had  whipped  up  the  shopkeepers.  .  .  . 

Socially  and  financially  the  success  of  the  concert  was 
assured  a  fortnight  before  the  date  of  performance;  but 
there  was  a  terrible  moment  on  the  night  when  Bradshaw's 
success  as  an  artist  hung  in  the  balance. 

The  programme  was  not  a  long  one.  Ruth  opened  with 
a  piano  solo,  the  middle  was  filled  by  a  professional  soprano 
known  to  Ruth,  the  well-known  glee  quartette  of  men's 
voices  led  by  Mr.  Bell,  and  the  pet  chorister,  Willie  Butler, 
who  delighted  all  Medborough  and  its  neighbourhood,  not 
only  by  the  sweetness  of  his  voice  in  the  Cathedral  anthem, 
but  also  by  his  splendid  aplomb  on  the  concert  platform. 
He  was,  indeed,  the  perfect  chorister  of  romance ;  he  even 
had  curly  hair. 

And  Bradshaw,  the  fount  and  origin  of  the  whole  affair, 
wound  up  the  first  part  by  singing  to  his  own  accompani- 
ment two  unpublished  songs  of  Scott-Gatty's, — by  kind 
permission, — namely,  "Who  d'you  think  was  there  ?"  and 
"My  dear  Aunt  Jane."  The  songs,  themselves,  were  un- 
impeachable by  Cathedral  standards,  but  the  performer 
overdid  his  facial  contortions.  It  was  then  that  his  fate 
hung  in  the  balance. 

The  Precincts  laughed,  but  they  were  just  a  shade  un- 
easy. The  applause  they  vouchsafed  lacked  enthusiasm, 
and  the  comments  that  Dickie  heard  were  not  of  the  kind 
he  desired. 

"Amusing  person  .  .  .  certainly  funny  .  .  .  such  an 
oddity  .  .  ."  were  phrases  conveying  a  hint  of  the  reserva- 
tion which  was  no  doubt  plainly  spoken  in  the  dropped 
voices  that  followed  the  audible  comment.  Dickie,  stand- 
ing in  his  capacity  of  steward  against  the  wall  of  the  side 
aisle,  knew  too  well  that  the  whispered  confidences  ex- 


278  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

pressed  in  some  form  or  another  the  criticism  that  Brad- 
shaw  was  "slightly  vulgar." 

If  there  had  been  any  tendency  among  those  first  ranks 
to  leave  the  Hall  at  that  moment,  the  affair  would  have 
been  a  failure.  Dickie,  debating  the  possibility  of  prevent- 
ing a  rout  by  addressing  the  audience  at  large,  stood  rigid, 
with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  stooping  shoulders  of  the  Dean. 
While  he  stood  firm,  all  would  be  well.  And  the  Dean 
stood  firm;  he  sat  nearly  at  the  end  of  the  third  row  with 
a  vacant  chair  on  his  right  hand,  and  in  the  middle  of  the 
interval  he  beckoned  Dickie  over  to  him. 

"I  suppose  your  friend  Bradshaw  will  give  us  his  best 
at  the  end  of  the  second  part — in  this  sketch  of  his,  eh?" 
asked  the  Dean  confidentially. 

"Yes,  sir,  that's  his  big  thing,"  Dickie  said. 

"Er — do  you  know  what  it's  about?"  the  Dean  asked. 

"I  heard  him  rehearse  it,  sir,"  Dickie  said. 

"The  truth  is,"  went  on  the  Dean,  dropping  his  voice 
still  lower,  "that  the  Bishop  said  he  might  come  in  at  the 
end  of  the  performance — I  am  keeping  this  chair  for  him, 
and  I  wanted  to  be  sure — d'you  think  he'll  like  it,  Lyn- 
neker?" 

"I'm  sure  he  will,  sir,"  Dickie  said  without  hesitation. 
"He's  got  a  jolly  sense  of  humour,  hasn't  he?  You  can  see 
it  in  his  history." 

The  Dean  smiled  gravely.  "If  you  say  so  .  .  ."  he  be- 
gan and  gave  his  characteristic  nod  of  the  head.  "Well, 
well,  if  you  say  so,  Lynneker.  .  .  ." 

"I'm  sure  it  will  be  all  right,  sir,"  Dickie  returned  as  he 
got  up. 

After  that  the  situation  was  saved  for  the  time  being. 
The  final  result  depended  upon  Bradshaw.  Dickie  con- 
sidered the  advisability  of  a  visit  to  the  retiring-room  and 
of  a  hint  that  the  facial  contortion  business  might  be  over- 
done. He  decided  against  it  on  the  ground  that  Brad- 
shaw might  be  upset  and  made  self-conscious.  He  had 
conveyed  the  impression  that  he  had,  after  all,  been  rather 


BRIAN  LESSING  279 

nervous  during  his  first  performance ;  that  he  had,  perhaps, 
been  over  anxious  to  get  a  laugh. 

He  made  no  mistake  on  his  second  appearance.  His 
sketch,  "No  one  takes  me  seriously/'  contained  more  than 
a  hint  of  pathos;  and  when,  at  the  conclusion,  in  the  last 
chorus  of  the  song  on  which  he  based  his  sketch,  he  changed 
suddenly  into  the  minor  and  wound  up  in  a  whisper  to  the 
accompaniment  of  one  desolate  chord,  the  house  was  obvi- 
ously moved. 

Bradshaw  had  touched  them  to  response ;  and  the  Bishop, 
who  had  crept  in  quietly  and  sat  by  the  Dean,  and  who 
had  laughed  quite  uproariously  at  the  right  moments,  led 
the  applause  with  a  vigour  that  alone  would  have  inspired 
the  Precincts  to  acclaim  the  lowest  of  low  comedians. 

"Capital,  capital,"  approved  the  Bishop  in  a  comfortably 
audible  voice;  and  the  Dean  looked  over  his  shoulder  and 
smiled  his  approbation  to  Dickie.  .  .  . 

Dickie  found  Ruth  in  happy  tears  when  he  went  to  the 
retiring-room  after  the  last  call  had  been  responded  to; 
but  Bradshaw's  eyes  were  very  bright  and  there  was  a  new 
note  in  his  self-depreciation  as  he  came  forward  and  wrung 
Dickie's  hand. 

"It's  all  your  doing,  old  chap,"  Bradshaw  said,  excitedly. 
"I  say,  the  Bishop  was  there;  and  laughed,  too,  didn't  he? 
Ruth  and  I  simply  owe  it  all  to  you.  She's  naturally  a  bit 
overcome  for  the  minute,  aren't  you,  dear?  Awful  rot, 
that  stuff  of  mine,  of  course,  but  it  seemed  to  go.  That 
touch  of  pathos  at  the  end?" 

"Oh!  wasn't  he  simply  splendid?"  asked  Ruth. 

Certainly,  there  had  always  been  the  making  of  an  artist 
in  Bradshaw. 


VIII 

Martyn  got  home  from  Japan  just  in  time  for  Latimer's 
wedding  in  February,  and  came  down  to  Halton,  making 
an  excuse  of  the  occasion  in  order,  as  he  wrote,  to  have  "a 
long  talk  with  cousin  Dick  about  his  future  plans." 


280  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

The  wedding  itself  was  a  less  ostentatious  affair  than 
Edward's  and  the  Lynneker  connexion  was  not  well  repre- 
sented. Since  the  Culver  deal  had  been  finally  settled,  the 
relations  between  Latimer  and  his  cousins  had  been  grow- 
ing steadily  more  distant.  The  Canon's  eldest  son,  Richard, 
had  come  home  for  a  week  from  his  Birmingham  curacy, 
and  although  there  had  been  no  open  quarrel,  he  had  prob- 
ably influenced  his  sisters ;  and,  now,  that  he  had  the 
money  comfortably  in  hand,  the  old  Canon  himself  was 
regretting  the  loss  of  the  advowson.  He  had  apologised  in 
a  stately  way  to  his  son,  and  after  that  he  became  increas- 
ingly anxious  to  forget  Latimer's  existence.  So  at  the  end 
of  November  an  exchange  of  curates  had  been  arranged 
with  the  Bishop's  consent,  and  Latimer  was  now  to  receive 
his  title  for  priest's  orders  in  the  parish  of  Bessington  at 
the  other  end  of  the  diocese.  Luckily  there  had  been 
"rather  a  good  house"  vacant  at  Bessington,  and  Mrs.  Black- 
well  had  taken  it  on  a  short  lease  (the  Canon  could  not 
live  for  ever)  and  had  advertised  the  place  in  the  Thrap- 
ley  Road  to  let  unfurnished.  She  had  finished  with  Med- 
borough.  The  Precincts  had  shown  her  plainly  enough  since 
the  engagement  that  they  had  only  accepted  her  on  suf- 
ferance, and  were  glad  to  have  a  valid  excuse  for  dropping 
her.  Even  Latimer  was  still  ignorant  as  to  the  characters 
and  professions  of  her  father  and  the  late  Vincent  Black- 
well. 

But  Bessington,  and  later  Culver,  would  be  her  own 
kingdom.  She  could  rule  there  as  she  could  never  have 
ruled  in  Medborough,  Nevertheless  in  face  of  clerical  and 
family  disapproval,  she  was  well  advised  to  plan  the  least 
ostentatious  of  weddings. 

Martyn  was  the  only  guest  at  Halton.  His  long  visit  to 
Japan  had  had  no  perceptible  effect  upon  him.  He  talked 
little  of  his  experiences  and  observations  of  the  country, 
and  the  little  he  said  was  chiefly  in  the  nature  of  a  foot- 
note to  his  ordinary  conversation.  It  seemed  that  his  great 
monograph  on  the  Lynneker  family  had  been  hanging  fire 


BRIAN  LESSING  281 

and  that  for  the  next  few  months  he  was  going  to  devote 
himself  to  that  work. 

And  the  "long  talk  with  cousin  Dick"  never  satisfactorily 
matured.  On  the  one  hand,  he  frequently  implied  that  the 
arrangement  was  taken  for  granted  and  that  Dickie  would 
come  up  to  him  in  the  following  September;  on  the  other, 
he  continually  shirked  any  definition  of  his  attitude  towards 
the  frank  statement  of  his  cousin's  desire  to  avoid  any 
pledge  of  adherence  to  the  principles  of  the  conservative 
party.  Martyn's  "Quite"  left  so  many  questions  unan- 
swered in  that  connexion. 

But  when  the  Lynnekers — reduced,  now,  to  such  a  small 
family-party — were  alone  again,  the  Rector  began  to  mani- 
fest his  increasing  anxiety  to  see  his  youngest  son  estab- 
lished under  the  aegis  of  his  cousin.  Indeed,  so  sincere 
was  the  Rector's  desire  for  the  accomplishment,  of  this 
ambition  that  he  put  the  greatest  restraint  on  his  natural 
disinclinations  and  talked  politics  quite  reasonably  with 
Dickie  after  prayers. 

"I  feel  that  it's  there  the  hitch  comes,  Dick,"  the  old 
man  said  on  a  typical  occasion.  "I  think  Martyn  is  a 
little  afraid  of  committing  himself  too  definitely  unless  you 
are  prepared  to  take  up  the  work  of  our  own  party." 

"I  know,"  Dickie  agreed.  "Not  that  he  has  ever  said 
it — in  so  many  words." 

The  Rector  hesitated  and  frowned,  bracing  himself  to  a. 
tremendous  control  of  his  feelings.  "I've  never  understood 
just  what  your  difficulty  is  .  .  ."  he  suggested. 

"I'm  not  at  all  clear  myself,"  Dickie  said. 

"But  in  that  case,"  urged  his  father  more  hopefully, 
"wouldn't  it  be  possible  for  you  to — to  compromise  in 
some  way?" 

Dickie  tried  a  side  movement.  "You  are  a  great  admirer 
of  Charles  Kingsley,  aren't  you,  pater?"  he  asked. 

"Magnificent  fellow,"  agreed  the  Rector. 

"But,  pater,  he  was  a  socialist — you  remember  'Alton 
Locke'  and  'Yeast'." 


THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"A  Christian  socialist,"  the  Rector  said.  "Kingsley  was 
a  splendid  Christian." 

"But  can  one  believe  one  thing  religiously  and  advocate 
the  exact  opposite  politically?"  asked  Dickie. 

"I  don't  think  I  have  ever  advocated  the  opposite  of 
Christianity,"  his  father  returned,  after  taking  a  fresh  grasp 
of  his  self-control. 

"I  don't  want  to  make  this  a  personal  question,"  Dickie 
pleaded.  "But  on  general  lines — well,  Kingsley  certainly 
carried  his  religious  convictions  into  some  kind  of  action 
— the  Working  Men's  Club  in  London  and  that  sort  of 
thing — and  conservatism,  as  far  as  I  can  understand  it, 
is  chiefly  concerned  to  keep  property  in  the  hands  of  the 
rich." 

The  Rector  found  an  escape  for  his  impatience  in  a  short 
summary  of  what  he  considered  to  be  the  aims  of  the  Con- 
servative party.  He  touched  lightly  on  education — he  had 
worked  very  hard,  and  so  far  successfully,  to  keep  the 
hated  "Board  School"  with  its  infamous  neglect  of  re- 
ligious teaching,  out  of  Halton — but  he  warmed  to  the 
construction  of  a  prettily  coloured  picture  of  the  generous 
over-lordship  theory;  of  the  paternal  treatment  of  the 
poor;  incidentally  of  the  poor's  Christian  duty  of  thank- 
fulness; and  of  the  necessity  to  have  the  government  of 
the  country  administered  by  those  superior  minds — the  pres- 
ent Premier,  for  example — who  could  regard  the  broad 
problems  of  legislation  with  informed  and  unprejudiced 
opinions. 

"Socialism  would  put  government  in  the  hands  of  the 
rabble,  my  dear  boy,"  he  concluded.  "We  should  have  an- 
other 'Reign  of  Terror.'  Surely  you  must  see  that?" 

"But  don't  you  think  there  ought  to  be  equality  of  op- 
portunity?" persisted  Dickie.  "There  have  been  some 
splendid  men  who  have  come  up  from  the  people." 

"The  good  men  always  come  up  as  it  is,"  the  Rector 
said,  "refined  by  the  struggle." 

He  was,  on  the  whole,  well  satisfied  with  his  own  argu- 


BRIAN  LESSING  283 

ment,  and  wanted,  now,  to  end  on  the  excellent  note  he  had 
just  sounded. 

"Well,  well,  dear  boy,"  he  said,  getting  to  his  feet. 
"Think  it  over  and  we'll  have  another  chat  to-morrow 
night." 

Dickie,  thinking  it  over  in  his  attic,  was  quite  prepared 
to  admit  that  there  was  much  to  be  said  in  favour  of  his 
father's  views ;  but  he  could  not  reconcile  them  with  any 
theory  of  Christianity ;  and,  while  he,  himself,  was  inclined 
to  deny  the  historical  validity  of  the  New  Testament,  he 
had  lost  none  of  his  admiration  for  the  spirit  of  the  Chris- 
tian ethic. 

Dickie  had  been  endowed  with  the  wonderful  gift  of 
sympathy ;  and  the  gift  gave  him  a  breadth  of  outlook  that 
was  noticeably  precocious  in  a  young  man  of  twenty- two. 
Also,  his  reading  and  thinking  during  the  past  five  years 
had  been  unusually  catholic  and  thorough. 


IX 

His  affairs  seemed  to  be  hurrying  towards  a  crisis 
that  summer,  and  he  was  aware  of  a  steady  desire  to  post- 
pone decision.  He  wanted  time,  and  confused  himself 
by  an  attempt  to  cram  years  of  work  into  a  few  weeks. 
During  April  and  May  he  read  feverishly;  history,  sociol- 
ogy, economics,  anything  that  might  enlighten  his  imme- 
diate search,  and  only  found  himself  wading  ever  deeper 
into  perplexity.  He  saw  no  clear  issue,  and  his  genuine 
anxiety  to  please  his  father  and  mother  was  pushing  him 
towards  a  decision  that  he  instinctively  dreaded. 

For  himself  he  had  no  fear.  He  had  perfect  confidence  in 
his  own  ability  to  succeed,  a  confidence  that  none  of  his 
family  was  able  to  understand.  They  all  dwelt  so  per- 
sistently on  the  fact  that  Martyn's  offer  was  a  great 
"chance"  for  him;  and  their  tone  implied  that  the  refusal 
of  a  "chance"  was  certainly  a  rash,  if  it  were  not  an  un- 
godly act.  And  Dickie,  who  felt  capable  of  finding  his  own 


284  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

chances  when  the  need  arose,  failed  completely  to  make 
any  of  his  relations  understand  that  time,  and  not  oppor- 
tunity, was  what  he  chiefly  sought.  When  he  pleaded  his 
youth  and  ignorance,  they  turned  the  plea  against  him  as 
an  argument  for  trusting  their  superior  knowledge  and 
experience;  and  while  he  acknowledged  the  force  of  their 
reasoning,  he  was  conscious,  without  the  least  conceit,  that 
they  knew  nothing  of  the  problem  that  intrigued  him,  and, 
with  even  greater  force,  that  they  could  never  know.  They 
were  all  different  from  him,  he  thought,  but  he  considered 
that  difference  without  reference  to  any  abstract  concep- 
tion of  superiority.  He  was,  indeed,  beginning  to  regard 
himself  as  a  person  of  eccentric  and  possibly  reprehensible 
opinions. 

Two  experiences  finally  helped  him  towards  a  more  defi- 
nite judgment  of  himself  and  the  choice  of  a  career. 

The  first  was  Martyn's  invitation  to  stay  with  him  for 
five  days  in  Mayfair  and  see  the  Diamond  Jubilee  proces- 
sion. And  so  little  did  his  father  and  mother  and  sister 
understand  Dickie,  that  when  he  read  Martyn's  invitation 
aloud  to  them  at  breakfast,  they  were  instantly  prepared  to 
make  a  united  effort  to  force  him  into  acceptance.  They 
glanced  at  one  another  as  if  mutely  electing  a  spokesman, 
and  then  Eleanor  said,  "Well,  really,  Dick,  I  think  you'll 
be  very  foolish  if  you  don't  go."  She  spoke  in  the  tone 
of  one  who  delivered  judgment  on  a  past  event. 

"I'd  like  to  go,"  Dickie  said,  cheerfully,  and  rather  em- 
barrassed them  all  by  thus  anticipating  all  the  fervent 
reasons  with  which  they  were,  at  last  almost  triumphantly, 
prepared. 

"Come,  come,  that's  settled,  then,"  Mr.  Lynneker  said, 
and  only  Eleanor  was  left  to  attempt  a  kind  of  posthumous 
chiding  for  something  that  had  never  existed. 

The  Rector  offered  to  advance  some  of  the  expenses  of 
this  grand  visit — an  outfit  would  be  needed — but  Dickie 
preferred  to  draw  upon  his  own  reserves  of  capital.  Dur- 
ing his  four  and  three  quarter  years  at  the  Bank  he  had 
saved  nearly  £150. 


BRIAN  LESSING  285 

"I  want  a  lot  of  new  clothes,  anyhow,"  he  explained. 

But  despite  the  pressure  put  upon  him  by  Edward,  Dickie 
definitely  refused  to  buy  a  tail-coat  and  a  top-hat. 

"Too  much  expense  just  for  one  visit,"  was  his  first 
defence,  and  when  that  was  broken  by  the  assumption 
that  he  would  certainly,  now,  be  going  up  to  town  "for 
good"  in  the  autumn,  he  fell  back  on  the  surer  ground  that 
the  formality  of  a  top-hat  was  not  his  "style."  Nothing 
could  move  him  from  that.  He  merely  grinned  in  his 
obstinate,  annoying  way  when  Edward  laid  down  the  law 
concerning  London  fashions. 

"I've  had  to  get  a  new  dress-suit,  you  see,"  was  his  last 
and  most  irritating  prevarication.  "My  old  one  has  split 
across  the  shoulders." 


The  procession  dazed  him  at  the  moment,  and  left  him 
critical  when  he  had  time  to  reconsider  his  impressions. 

After  those  long  hours  of  waiting,  interrupted  rather 
than  enlivened  by  the  distracted  conversations  peculiar  to 
such  an  occasion,  the  atmosphere  of  expectancy  so  wrapped 
him  about  that  he  rose  automatically  to  the  climax  and 
cheered  with  the  swaying  emotion  of  the  crowd.  This  was 
his  first  experience  of  a  great  infectious  excitement,  and 
it  seemed  to  him  as  he  sat  perched  on  the  staging  that  his 
culminating  sight  of  the  stout  little  woman  in  black  was 
an  immense  and  glorious  satisfaction.  The  overwhelming 
dignities  of  idea  and  phrase  exalted  her  beyond  conception ; 
the  idea  of  controlling  kingship,  of  a  great  nation  typified 
in  this  one  exhibited  figure;  and  in  that  supremely  moving 
moment  when  colour  and  music  had  exalted  and  concen- 
trated the  thought  of  the  multitude,  such  a  phrase  as 
"Empress  of  India"  rang  through  his  mind  with  the  visual- 
ised glory  of  a  transcending  epic.  For  an  instant  national 
sentiment  and  emotion  had  found  a  focus. 

Afterwards  he  was  a  little  ashamed.     It  seemed  to  him 


286  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

that  in  some  unanalysable  way  he  had  been  false  to  his  own 
opinions. 

But  the  great  fact  of  the  Procession  was  less  lasting 
as  an  influence  than  his  various  meetings  and  attempted 
rapprochements  with  Martyn's  friends  and  with  Martyn 
himself. 

Dickie  could  find  but  one  answer  that  satisfied  the  equa- 
tion of  his  general  inferences.  All  these  people — in  the 
five  days  he  had  met  one  Government  Whip,  a  Conservative 
peer,  and  several  less  prominent  members  of  the  Lower 
House — were  tinged  with  the  Lynneker  tradition.  There 
were  so  many  formulae  that  they  accepted  without  question. 
The  Whip  had  been  embarrassed  and  uneasy  when  Dickie 
had  asked  him  why  the  obvious  paradoxes  of  the  suffrage 
could  not  be  done  away  with. 

"You  see,  I've  lived  all  my  life  in  a  country  parish," 
Dickie  had  explained;  "and  down  there  it's  quite  obvious 
that  the  country  labourer  has  no  definite  ideas  as  to  the  uses 
of  his  vote." 

"We  are  educating  him,"  the  Whip  said,  evasively. 

"Yes,  but  so  is  the  other  party,"  argued  Dickie,  "and 
each  of  you  is  trying  to  teach  him  a  system  of  rigid  ideas, 
and  the  two  systems  contradict  each  other." 

The  Whip  looked  across  the  table  for  help  and  found 
that  he  was  being  momentarily  neglected.  "Your  labourer 
is  left  with  the  power  of  choice,"  he  said. 

"I  know,"  Dickie  returned,  "he's  left  to  decide  which 
of  you  has  been  lying.  It  doesn't  seem  to  me  an  intelligent 
method  of  education.  .  .  ." 

"You've  won  the  reputation  of  an  ardent  radical,  Dick," 
Martyn  said  to  him  at  breakfast  on  the  last  morning  of  his 
stay  in  town. 

"And  I'm  not  a  bit  of  a  radical,"  Dickie  replied.  "How 
is  it,  Martyn?" 

"Your  devotion  to  radices,  I  suppose,"  Martyn  said. 
His  smile  had  the  tolerant  admiration  of  a  musician  ap- 
proving a  brilliant  performance  on  the  banjo. 

"I  shouldn't  object  to  taking  the  premisses  for  granted 


BRIAN  LESSING  287 

if  there  were  only  one  set,"  objected  Dickie.  "But  as  there 
are  at  least  two,  I  must  justify  my  choice  of  one  set  to  the 
exclusion  of  the  others." 

"Are  they  mutually  exclusive,  Dick?"  asked  Martyn, 
and  his  tone  and  manner  implied  that  he  posed  some  ulti- 
mate question  the  answer  to  which  had  been  esoterically 
revealed  to  himself  and  the  favoured  few,  and  might  be 
discovered  by  the  eye  of  genius. 

"Absolutely,"  Dickie  said. 

Martyn  sighed,  but  still  smiled  as  if  it  must  be  admitted 
that  this  banjo-player  was  after  all,  really,  quite  clever. 

Unfortunately  Dickie  was  not  impressed  by  that  hint  of 
some  inspired  knowledge.  He  had  fully  recognised  by  this 
time  that  the  brilliant  Martyn  was  a  true  Lynneker. 


XI 

The  second  experience  was  of  another  kind. 

Brian  Lessing,  the  most  influential  director  of  the  City 
&  County,  came  to  Medborough  in  August ;  principally,  Mr. 
Bell  said,  in  order  to  interview  Dickie. 

Lessing  was  only  incidentally  one  of  the  Bank's  di- 
rectors; although  that  office  was,  perhaps,  the  most  im- 
portant of  the  three  or  four  held  by  him.  He  was  one  of 
the  unobtrusive  powers  of  English  finance.  The  public 
hardly  knew  his  name,  but  it  was  eagerly  sought  for  the 
more  substantial  City  flotations,  and  very  rarely  granted. 

He  was  a  big,  flat-chested  man,  with  thick,  short  hair 
and  a  closely  cropped  moustache.  He  was  dressed  in  hairy, 
strong-smelling  tweeds  when  he  came  to  Medborough  and 
he  lounged  in  Mr.  Bell's  desk  chair  with  one  leg  lifted, 
most  uncomfortably,  over  the  wooden  arm. 

"Well,  Lynneker,  you're  Bell's  prize  clerk,  I  hear,"  was 
his  opening  when  Dickie  was  brought  in  to  him  by  the 
obviously  nervous  Mr.  Bell.  "Your  father's  a  parson,  he 
tells  me." 

Dickie's  "Yes,  sir,"  might  have  been  taken  to  confirm 


288  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

either  or  both  statements.  He  and  Lessing  stared  at  each 
other  without  any  sense  of  confusion.  They  took  stock 
of  one  another  without  any  conflict  of  wills,  and  with  no 
more  self-consciousness  than  a  butcher  might  feel  in  ap- 
praising the  flesh  of  a  bullock. 

"What  made  you  go  in  for  banking?"  asked  Lessing, 
still  watching  Dickie's  face. 

"Force  of  circumstances,"  Dickie  said.  He  unconsciously 
dropped  the  formal  "sir"  in  speaking  to  Lessing;  he  met 
him  intuitively  as  an  equal. 

"Mathematical  genius?"  enquired  Lessing. 

"No,  not  genius,"  Dickie  returned.  "I'm  pretty  good 
up  to  a  certain  point,  that's  all." 

Mr.  Bell,  hovering  nervously  in  the  background,  cleared 
his  throat,  but  Lessing  waved  him  back  with  a  curt  gesture 
of  his  broad  hand. 

"Want  to  make  money?"  he  asked,  continuing  his  cross- 
examination. 

"It  isn't  a  passion  with  me,"  Dickie  said. 

"Don't  want  to  stop  in  Medborough  and  count  other  peo- 
ple's, in  any  case?" 

"No." 

"What  is  a  passion  with  you?    Have  you  got  one?" 

"Yes,  I  want  to  understand  .  .  ."  Dickie  paused  and 
grinned  at  his  examiner.  "What  it's  all  about,  you  know," 
he  concluded. 

Lessing  released  his  leg  from  the  arm  of  the  chair  and 
put  his  hands  on  Mr.  Bell's  table. 

"Got  the  reforming  spirit?"  he  asked,  still  in  the  same 
dry,  almost  rude,  tone. 

Dickie  shook  his  head. 

"Don't  want  to  do  any  Good  in  the  world?"  Lessing 
suggested. 

"What  sort  of  good  ?"  Dickie  asked. 

Lessing  did  not  answer  that.  "Would  you  be  willing  to 
stay  on  here  for  another  five  years,"  he  said,  "if  I  gave 
you  my  word  that  you'd  get  a  first-class  job  at  the  end  of 
that  time, — thousand  a  year  job,  you  know?" 


BRIAN  LESSING  289 

Dickie  took  a  moment  to  consider  that  before  he  shook 
his  head  again. 

"Well,  what  do  you  want?"  Lessing  asked  sharply. 

"To  gratify  my  passion,"  Dickie  said.  "I  should  have 
thought  you  could  have  inferred  that." 

"To  know  what  life  means?" 

"You  can  put  it  that  way." 

"And  when  you've  found  a  solution  that  satisfies  you?" 

"I  can't  see  as  far  as  that,"  Dickie  said. 

"Interested  in  politics?"  the  examination  continued. 

"From  one  point  of  view.  The  present  system,  so  far 
as  I  can  understand  it,  which  isn't  far  certainly,- seems  to 
me  so  infernally  unintelligent." 

"Oh!  does  it?"  remarked  Lessing  in  another  tone,  as 
though  he  had  at  last  found  what  he  had  been  seeking. 
"That's  where  your  lack  of  experience  shows.  As  a  sys- 
tem, it's  most  infernally  intelligent,  so  intelligent  that  we 
gamble  on  it  without  being  able  to  understand  it.  But  I'll 
talk  to  you  about  politics  another  day.  Will  you  take  my 
word  for  it  that  you're  wrong  there?" 

Dickie  looked  thoughtful.  "All  right,"  he  said;  "but 
just  tell  me  this:  is  the  system  founded  on  the  personal 
interests  of  the  various  classes?  One  lot  trying  to  keep 
what  they've  got,  and  the  other  lot  wanting  to  get  a  bit 
of  it  away;  and  the  whole  business  carried  on  publicly 
under  the  pretence  that  it's  something  quite  different?" 

"There's  that  in  it,"  Lessing  agreed;  "that's  the  more 
obvious  side.  But  there's  real  government,  you.  know, — 
public  safety,  facilities  for  trade  enterprise,  national  wel- 
fare, all  that  kind  of  thing.  It's  a  thundering  big  job  to 
carry  on,  and  it  is  carried  on.  And  it  works.  It  gives  you 
and  me  and  Bell,  here,  a  chance  to  do  things." 

"Government  by  expediency  .  .  ."  murmured  Dickie. 

"Why,  of  course,  my  dear  chap,"  returned  Lessing,  vig- 
orously. "There's  no  other  way  for  government.  Our 
government  has  to  serve  the  needs  and  protect  the  rights 
of  forty  million  people  and  that  means  that  it's  a  mighty 
big  machine.  There  are  plenty  of  injustices,  no  doubt,  and 


290  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

the  balance  of  benefit  goes  to  the  people  who've  got 
position  and  money,  because  they've  got  the  balance  of 
intelligence  and  they  made  the  law." 

"So  you  have  to  lie  to  the  comparatively  unintelligent 
voter?"  Dickie  put  in. 

"That's  nothing  to  do  with  government,"  Lessing  said. 
"That's  party  politics,  the  superficial  tinkering  with  the 
machine.  It  serves  its  purpose  incidentally;  adds  new  im- 
provements and  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know.  And  that's 
the  way  to  ...  to  steady  progress.  The  motto  of  govern- 
ment is  'festina  lente.'  Has  to  be.  Idealism  and  revolu- 
tion break  up  the  machine  and  leave  nothing  in  its  place. 
You  can't  construct  a  brand  new  machine  in  a  year  or  in 
ten  years.  No  man,  no  group  of  men,  have  got  the  fore- 
sight for  a  thing  like  that.  It's  too  big." 

"Yes,  I  see  the  point,"  Dickie  said.  "But  I  should  like  to 
have  a  long  talk  with  you  about  it." 

"Right  you  are,  my  boy,"  Lessing  said.  "Come  and  have 
lunch  with  me  at  the  Great  Northern.  I've  got  to  catch 
the  two  o'clock  to  Edinburgh.  There  are  one  or  two  things 
I  want  to  say  to  Bell,  first.  I'll  pick  you  up  as  I  come 
through.  .  .  ." 

Dickie  learnt  many  things  in  the  course  of  that  lunch 
at  the  Great  Northern  Hotel,  but  the  lesson  he  principally 
pondered  later  was  that  of  his  own  ignorance.  He  was 
provincial  and  he  was  superficial,  he  decided.  He  had  failed 
to  comprehend  the  intricacies  of  these  problems  of  govern- 
ment, of  economics  and  sociology,  as  he  had  failed  to  com- 
prehend the  subtler  theorems  of  the  calculus,  or  the  ethics 
of  his  attack  upon  George  Smith.  He  had  been  too  ready 
to  come  to  a  conclusion.  Even  the  word  "expedience"  had 
taken  a  new  colour  when  it  had  been  elaborated  by  Brian 
Lessing.  The  Lynnekers  saw  expedience  as  a  goal,  and  so 
Dickie  had  come  to  hate  it.  Lessing  saw  it  as  a  means,  as 
a  useful,  necessary  tool  that  might  be  discarded  on  occa- 
sion. Dickie  had  a  vision  of  him  as  a  free  man  outside 
the  net,  using  it  for  his  own  purposes. 

And  Lessing  and  himself  were  of  the  same  fibre.    They 


BRIAN  LESSING  291 

had  both  realised  that.  But  Dickie  alone  had  perceived 
that  behind  their  likeness  was  a  fundamental  difference. 
Lessing  wanted  knowledge  for  his  own  purposes;  Dickie 
wanted  it  without  ulterior  object. 


XII 

At  the  end  of  the  lunch  Lessing  had  made  a  proposition. 
It  seemed  that  while  he  had  been  talking  fluently  and 
convincingly  of  the  business  of  right  government,  some 
part  of  his  mind  had  been  engaged  with  other  things. 

He  had  stopped  abruptly  in  his  exposition  and  looked  at 
his  watch. 

"Well,  Lynneker,"  he  had  said.  "That  will  have  to  do 
for  now.  You  can  work  for  yourself  on  what  I've  told 
you." 

And  then  he  had  made  his  proposition,  cut  and  dried, 
with  no  question  of  alternatives  or  contingencies. 

"I  want  you  to  stay  on  with  Bell  for  another  year,"  he 
had  said ;  "and  then  I'll  take  you  into  my  office.  You're  too 
good  for  any  Bank — too  much  routine,  not  enough  scope. 
We  needn't  bother  about  salary,  you  can  have  what  you 
want.  ...  I  shall  take  you  into  my  own  room — no  me- 
chanical work,  you  understand.  I  want  you  for  the  big 
things.  ...  I  shall  be  sending  you  to  America  and  Berlin, 
and  Europe,  generally.  You'll  be  qualified  to  represent  me 
in  five  years'  time.  ...  By  the  way,  do  you  read  French 
and  German?  Good!  Keep  that  up.  You'll  get  practice 
in  conversation  later.  And  train  yourself  to  think  in  foreign 
moneys." 

Throughout  he  had  taken  Dickie's  acquiescence  for 
granted. 

XIII 

Nor  was  there  any  serious  doubt  in  Dickie's  mind  as 
to  his  acceptance  of  the  offer.  It  meant  so  many  things; 


292  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

intimacy  with  the  strong,  clear  mind  of  Brian  Lessing, 
for  example ;  but  above  all — education.  Dickie  had  a  clear 
picture  of  himself  as  absurdly  provincial.  He  had  been 
narrow;  he  had  been  biassed  by  the  limitations  of  his  cir- 
cumstances. America,  Berlin,  Europe  generally,  would 
give  him  wider  views. 

And  that  other  offer,  the  tentative,  hesitating,  contingent 
offer  of  Martyn's,  slid  suddenly  into  contempt.  It  had 
the  quality  of  a  dream,  of  a  weakly  coloured  romance. 
Perhaps  it  had  never  had  real  substance,  but  had  arisen 
from  the  imaginings  of  Martyn's  mind.  And  at  the  best 
it  had  proposed  a  dalliance  with  the  essential  things  of  life : 
— a  moving  on  the  surface ;  a  regard  for  dress  as  a  means 
to  social  advancement;  a  respect  for  social  conventions, 
for  the  "right"  people,  for  manners  and  decency;  these 
were  the  idols  of  Martyn's  world.  At  the  end,  perhaps,  an 
ornamental  seat  in  the  Cabinet,  as  a  respected  minister; 
too  wise  to  interfere  with  the  capable  administration  of 
the  permanent  secretaries.  .  .  . 

Lessing  was  strong  enough  to  despise  the  lesser  rules 
of  expediency.  (His  tweeds  had  had  an  air  of  being  used 
to  him;  and  Dickie  thought  it  probable  that  he  wore  them 
in  town  as  well  as  in  the  country.)  He  would  supple  his 
back  to  nobody.  He  was  almost  a  free  man. 

By  contrast  Martyn  appeared  as  little  better  than  a 
fortunate  marionette.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Bell  had  a  half -expectant,  half-anxious  air  when 
Dickie  returned  to  the  Bank  after  lunch,  but  business  was 
unusually  brisk  that  afternoon,  and  the  manager  and  his 
cashier  found  no  opportunity  for  private  conversation  until 
after  four  o'clock. 

And  then  Mr.  Bell's  hitherto  suppressed  impatience  was 
manifested  by  an  instant  departure  to  his  private  parlour. 
Dickie  followed  with  reluctance.  He  had  more  than  an 
hour's  solid  work  before  him. 

"Well,  Lynneker,  what  do  you  think  of  Mr.  Lessing?" 
Mr.  Bell  asked  eagerly.  "A  remarkable  personality,  eh? 


BRIAN  LESSING  293 

I  suppose  he  gave  you  no  hint  as  to  his  future  intentions 
with  regard  to  yourself  ?" 

"He  wants  me  to  stay  on  here  for  another  year,"  Dickie 
said,  "and  then  he  is  going  to  take  me  into  his  own 
office." 

Mr.  Bell's  face  expressed  perplexity.  "His  own  office?" 
he  repeated  vaguely. 

"He  said  he  could  find  a  better  use  for  me  than  the 
mechanical  work  of  banking,"  Dickie  explained  without 
a  thought  for  the  brutality  of  his  implication. 

"Ah !  yes,  I  see,"  Mr.  Bell  said.  His  expression  of  boyish 
expectancy  had  vanished;  he  looked  down  at  his  desk  and 
began  to  smooth  out  a  perfectly  flat  sheet  of  blotting 
paper. 

"You  will  accept  that,  of  course?"  he  said,  without 
looking  up. 

"I  think  so,  sir,"  Dickie  said. 

The  manager  nodded  absently.  "Oh,  well,"  he  said. 
"Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  guessed."  He  paused  and  took 
up  a  bunch  of  forms.  "I  expect  you  have  a  lot  of  entries 
to  make,"  he  added. 

Dickie  accepted  his   dismissal  without  comment. 

He  understood  his  manager's  pique,  and  reflected  on  it 
while  he  rapidly  and  neatly  (he  was  always  a  good  work- 
man) made  up  his  books.  He  understood  that  he  had  been 
especially  marked  out  and  trained  for  the  Bank's  service; 
that  he  had,  perhaps,  been  the  particular  "find"  of  Mr. 
Bell's  life.  And  his  disappointment  was  certainly  excus- 
able, if  a  little  selfish.  The  manager  of  the  Medborough 
branch  of  the  City  &  County  had  not  been  eager  in  the  first 
place  for  his  clerk's  success ;  he  had  wanted  the  prestige  of 
making  the  discovery,  of  demonstrating  still  further  how  well 
he  served  his  employers.  Dickie  was  sorry  to  have  caused 
that  disappointment,  but  a  little  resentful,  nevertheless. 
Had  he  not  always  made  it  quite  clear  that  he  had  no  inten- 
tion of  remaining  in  the  Bank's  employ? 

Dickie  could  not  know  that  his  manager  still  sat  in  his 
private  room,  idly  playing  with  the  bunch  of  forms  and 


294  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

thinking  of  himself,  for  the  first  time,  as  a  failure.  His 
success  had  seemed  so  much  to  him  who  had  once  been  a 
chorister.  The  adequate  house  in  the  Upminster  Road, 
his  wife  and  his  two  little  daughters  were  the  vouchers  for 
his  achievement.  And  he  had  a  position  in  the  town;  he 
was  respected  for  his  professional  capacities;  admired  for 
his  musical  gifts.  He  had  won  all  that  by  his  own  effort. 
He  knew  that  he  was  a  figure  in  Medborough,  something 
more  dignified  than  your  average  bank-manager. 

And,  now,  in  one  careless  sentence,  this  boy  of  his  find- 
ing had  poured  contempt  on  all  that  achievement.  At 
twenty-two  he  had  been  found  too  good  for  employment 
in  this  service  which  had  always  seemed  so  fine  to  his  chief. 
His  work  had  been  stigmatised  as  mechanical,  and  for 
one  long  half-hour,  Arthur  Bell  drooped  before  the  presen- 
tation of  his  own  limitations;  before  the  thought  that  he 
had  pitched  his  ambition  too  low;  that,  perhaps,  he  also 
might  have  aspired  to  be  "too  good"  for  mere  banking. 
Beyond  that  humble  employment,  immense  vistas  of  fame 
and  power  stretched,  as  it  seemed,  almost  inimitably.  .  .  . 

Nor  could  Dickie  instantly  appreciate  his  own  family's 
attitude  when  he  gave  them  an  account  of  his  offer  from 
Brian  Lessing. 

The  Rector  smiled  his  general  satisfaction  at  the  com- 
pliment paid  to  his  boy's  ability,  and  then  said,  "But,  of 
course,  you  wouldn't  give  Martyn  the  go-by  for  that," — an 
opinion  that  was  instantly  endorsed  by  sounds  of  feminine 
approval. 

"I'd  sooner  go  to  Mr.  Lessing,"  Dickie  said. 

His  father,  mother  and  sister  expressed  shocked  sur- 
prise. 

"But  why?"  they  asked  and  gave  the  reasons  for  their 
own  choice. 

"Was  Mr.  Lessing  a  gentleman?  Could  he  introduce 
Dickie  to  people  with  influence?  What  would  come  of  it? 
And  then :  Martyn  was  such  a  Capital  Person ;  he  had 
such  perfect  manners,  was  so  much  at  home  in  Any 
society.  .  .  ." 


BRIAN  LESSING  295 

They  discussed  the  whole  magnificent,  beneficent  aspect 
of  Martyn's  proposal  among  the  three  of  them,  while  Dickie 
waited  patiently  until  they  should  return  to  their  direct 
enquiry  as  to  the  reason  for  his  own  prejudice. 

And  as  he  listened,  the  Lynneker  attitude,  the  English 
attitude,  towards  this  one  question,  came  out  before  him 
in  one  concise,  vivid  picture. 

They  accepted  and  glorified  the  past.  They  referred  to 
it  as  to  an  ideal  that  might  and  should  be  reconstructed. 
The  old  had  been  tried  and  was  approved;  the  new  was 
suspect,  and  better  avoided.  His  father's  test  began :  "In 
my  day  .  .  ."  that  comfortable  day  in  which,  it  seemed 
now,  was  never  anything  new  and  disturbing;  although 
the  Rector's  father  had  used  the  same  phrase  and  had 
abhorred  the  propaganda  of  the  Utopists,  and  the  Reform 
Bill,  and  the  coming  of  steam  traction.  And  so,  no  doubt, 
had  generation  after  generation  of  Lynnekers  found  some 
imagined  ideal  in  the  past.  Before  this,  that  and  the  other, 
— the  French  Revolution,  the  Hanoverian  Succession,  the 
Civil  War, — everything  had  been,  somehow,  more  glorious, 
finer,  more  desirable.  Step  by  step  they  might  be  followed 
back  to  some  primitive  ancestor  who  had  preferred  flint 
to  the  new-fangled  bronze  weapon  that  had  driven  his  tribe 
westward.  But  always  they  had  been  driven  forward. 
Some  power,  invisible  and  indefinable,  had  always  over- 
come their  inertia,  tumbled  them  one  step  onward,  and 
left  them  to  deplore  the  wonderful  past  out  of  which  they 
had  been  mercilessly  thrust, — and  to  congratulate  them- 
selves on  the  fact  that  in  spite  of  almost  insuperable  diffi- 
culties they  had  risen  to  the  occasion. 

They  sought  no  explanation  of  life;  the  explanation  had 
always  been  given  by  a  preceding  generation.  .  .  . 

And  Martyn's  name  figured  in  the  Morning  Post  among 
the  guests  at  great  houses;  and  Brian  Lessing  was  only 
"something  in  the  City,"  as  Mrs.  Lynneker  smilingly  put  it. 

They  so  brilliantly  convinced  themselves  of  the  truth  of 
their  objections  to  the  new  scheme,  that  at  last  they  turned 


296  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

to  Dickie  with  the  happy  certainty  that  they  had  not  left 
him  a  leg  to  stand  on. 

"I  really  do  not  think,  my  boy,  that  you  can  afford  to 
give  Martyn  the  go-by  now,"  the  Rector  said. 

"He  doesn't  want  me,"  Dickie  said,  and  after  that  state- 
ment had  been  denied  and  disproved  at  length,  he  continued : 
"He  never  meant  it  quite  seriously.  He  dreams  about  it, 
and  he  may  go  on  dreaming  about  it  for  years,  but  he'll 
never  do  anything." 

And  so,  pushing  past  a  weakening  barrier  of  denials,  he 
came  to  a  statement  of  his  own  position. 

"And  even  if  Martyn's  offer  came  to  anything,"  he  said, 
"I  should  be  dependent  on  him  for  some  years,  and  I  don't 
want  to  be  dependent  on  anybody.  But  that  hardly  counts. 
The  point  is  that  I  shan't  learn  anything  if  I  get  called  to 
the  Bar  and  go  into  society  and  all  that.  It's  only  the  same 
old  stuff  over  again.  I  saw  the  sort  of  thing  I  should  be 
expected  to  do  and  say,  when  I  was  up  there  for  the 
Jubilee.  If  I  go  to  Lessing's  I  shall  go  abroad  to  America 
and  Europe,  and  meet  people  who  have  different  points  of 
view.  And  I  like  Mr.  Lessing  himself.  He  doesn't  take 
everything  for  granted.  He  has  thought  things  out  for  him- 
self. .  .  ." 

He  could  not  reach  the  end  of  his  explanation.  His 
father's  rising  irritability  broke  into  petulance.  Deep  down 
in  the  Rector's  consciousness  was  an  inherited  memory  of 
old  injuries,  and  instinctively  he  fought  against  the  rein- 
carnation of  the  detested  power  that  had  once  driven  him 
westward  with  a  bronze  spear. 

"Of  course,  if  you  know  better  than  your  father  and 
mother,"  he  began,  getting  to  his  feet,  and  then,  choked  by 
the  very  righteousness  of  his  own  evidently  just  cause,  he 
left  the  room  with  more  anger  than  dignity. 

Out  of  her  distress  Mrs.  Lynneker  evoked  one  last  des- 
perate poser. 

"But  what  would  you  be  if  you  went  into  Mr.  Lessing's 
office?"  she  asked. 


BRIAN  LESSING  297 

"Nothing  particular,"  Dickie  said.  "I  don't  know  that 
I  want  to  be  anything  particular ;  I  want  to  learn." 

They  could  not  understand  him.  They  were  afraid  of 
him.  He  was  bronze  to  their  flint,  and  they  clung  with 
desperation  to  their  familiar,  comprehensible  home. 


BOOK  TWO 


XIII 
JULY,  1903 


DURING  his  five  years'  probation  in  Brian  Lessing's 
office  in  Austin  Friars,  Dickie  found  a  new  valuation 
of  Halton  and  Medborough.  All  that  placid  country  and  its 
associations  settled  into  a  steady,  unchanging  background, 
against  which  each  new  impression  glared  briefly  in  bright 
relief.  The  recent  orderliness  of  Berlin,  the  flamboyance 
of  Paris,  the  naked  boast  of  New  York  appeared  to  him 
now  and  again  as  the  perspective  of  splendid  gardens,  raised 
against  a  setting  of  long,  grey  hills.  But  certain  quarters 
of  Paris  and  much  of  heterogeneous,  untidy  London  would 
suddenly  revive  in  him  the  deep  impressions  of  the  back- 
ground. It  was  as  if  in  the  midst  of  cultivated  and  exotic 
flowers,  he  came  unexpectedly  upon  some  primitive  fallow 
or  deep,  waste  wood,  upon  the  simple  enduring  growths 
from  which  every  bloom  in  those  gay  parterres  had  won- 
derfully sprung.  On  the  Isle  of  Notre  Dame,  in  the  cloisters 
of  Westminster  or  facing  the  sturdy  masses  of  the  Tower, 
he  found  another  aspect  of  Halton  and  Medborough  that 
confronted  and  perplexed  him. 

For  if  he  had  come  during  those  six  years  in  the  London 
&  County  Bank  to  deny  the  value  of  all  that  he  had  sym- 
bolised by  the  word  "expediency,"  so  now  he  felt  an  increas- 
ing urgency  to  free  himself  from  the  ruthless  fighting  of 
the  money  market.  He  had  escaped  from  his  net,  and 
taken  the  thing  in  his  hands  to  discover  that  the  only  use 
for  it  was  to  snare  his  fellow-men. 

301 


302  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

And  he  was  aware  that  whereas  during  his  imprisonment, 
the  desire  to  free  himself  had  steadily  grown,  now  that  he 
had  won  to  a  measure  of  control  over  others,  he  was  hard- 
ening, crystallising.  Already  he  had  lost  something  of  the 
virtue  of  sympathy,  and  used  his  power  to  read  men's  minds 
rather  than  to  understand  their  spirit.  His  longing  for  new 
knowledge  was  giving  place  to  pride  in  the  use  of  that  he 
had  already  gained ;  and  the  new  knowledge  he  still  sought 
was  desired  as  a  means  to  greater  power.  The  magic  of  a 
game  that  "worked"  had  nearly  enchanted  him.  .  .  . 

He  had  come  to  a  knowledge  of  his  ability  within  twelve 
months  of  his  establishment  in  the  Austin  Friars  office. 
Brian  Lessing  had  put  a  case  to  him  one  morning  at  the 
beginning  of  September,  1899 ;  and  after  a  brief  considera- 
tion of  the  known  side  of  the  problem,  Dickie  had  given  it 
as  his  opinion  that  a  war  between  England  and  the  Boer 
Republics  was  an  improbable  eventuality.  He  had  given 
his  reasons  with  conviction,  and  Lessing  had  listened  quietly 
and  nodded  approval. 

"Very  good,  Lynneker,"  he  had  said  when  the  case  had 
been  argued.  "I  wanted  an  opinion  that  would  be  represen- 
tative of  the  shrewder  business  man,  and  yours  fits  well 
enough.  Now,  let  us  take  a  fresh  set  of  suppositions." 

And  then  he  had  stated  new  premisses  that  were  depend- 
ent upon  subtle  inferences,  the  bases  of  which  were  un- 
known to  the  public  his  protege  had  represented,  and  Dickie 
had  had  a  sight  of  the  fine  intricacies  and  delicate  finesse  of 
the  game  he  was  being  taught  to  play.  He  had  argued  with 
and  cross-examined  his  teacher  at  great  length  that  morning 
before  admitting  that  they  were  justified  in  selling  to  the 
buyers  who  believed  in  the  integrity  of  purpose  of  the 
British  Government. 

Those  revelations  of  Lessing's  which  had  been  apparently 
so  well  justified  by  the  event,  influenced  Dickie  to  a  strong 
sympathy  with  the  Boer  Republics  during  the  critical  year 
of  war.  Under  advice  from  his  principal,  he  made  at  home 
no  profession  of  what  in  that  emotional,  hysterical  period 
would  have  been  regarded  as  his  traitorous  opinions,  but  in 


JULY,  1903  303 

America  and  on  the  Continent  he  talked  freely  to  many  men 
of  position  and  learnt  to  criticise  England  from  the  outside. 
He  had  gained  immensely  in  knowledge  and  in  power  before 
the  Peace  of  Vereeniging,  and  had  lost  something  he  could 
not  clearly  indicate.  The  certain  gain  had  seemed  for  a  time 
to  outweigh  the  uncertain  loss. 

And  it  was  not  until  July,  1903,  when  his  five  years'  pro- 
bation was  nearly  over  and  Lessing  had  made  him  an  offer 
amounting  to  a  junior  partnership,  that  Dickie  paused  to 
consider  his  balance  before  committing  himself  to  a  de- 
cision. 

"I  must  have  time  to  think  this  out,"  he  said  more  in  his 
old  manner,  when  the  offer  was  made. 

Lessing  had  looked  at  him  keenly.  "You  can  have  three 
months,"  he  returned.  "I  shall  be  going  to  America  in 
September." 

"It  must  be  three  months'  independence  then,"  Dickie 
stipulated.  "I  can't  see  the  fence  from  here." 

"Where  shall  you  go?"  Lessing  asked. 

Dickie  gave  a  day's  thought  to  that  before  he  decided  to 
go  home  to  Halton.  He  had  seen  little  of  his  own  people  in 
the  past  five  years.  He  had  had  no  fixed  holidays,  and  had 
taken  a  few  days  here  and  there  when  he  had  been  abroad, 
in  preference  to  a  regulation  month  devoted  to  a  prescribed 
idling.  Also,  he  had  dreaded  the  subject  of  the  war  during 
those  short  week-ends  he  had  occasionally  spent  at  the 
Rectory. 

A  casual  sight  of  the  Tower  of  London  had  finally 
clinched  his  decision.  For  one  moment  he  had  seen  again 
an  aspect  of  Halton  in  that  stolid  monument,  and  had  suf- 
fered a  pang  of  home-sickness.  He  had  seen  the  calm, 
wide-browed  church  on  the  hill  and  it  had  spoken  to  him  of 
something  he  had  lost, — of  some  permanent  spirit  that  had 
found  expression  in  Gothic  architecture,  and  was  now  seek- 
ing another  likeness  in  the  fierce  evolution  of  the  new  cen- 
tury. 

Dickie  had  known  then  that  he  was  in  danger  of  crystal- 
lising before  his  growth  was  complete. 


304  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

At  twenty-eight  he  decided  to  throw  all  his  experience 
into  a  mental  flux,  and  make  a  new,  unprejudiced  choice. 

When  he  communicated  his  decision  to  Lessing,  his  chief 
frowned  impatiently. 

"You'll  be  a  damned  fool  if  you  chuck  this,  Dick,"  he 
said,  and  after  a  pause  he  added,  "There's  nothing  any 
better." 

"I  haven't  said  I  should  chuck  it,"  Dickie  returned. 

"Every  business,  every  road  to  power,  goes  by  our  route," 
Lessing  went  on.  "You  have  to  choose  whether  you'll  be 
slave  or  master,  that's  all.  And  you  haven't  the  makings 
of  a  slave,  my  son." 


II 

In  the  train  going  home  from  Kings  Cross,  Dickie  re- 
flected on  that  saying  and  dismissed  it  as  an  insufficient  and 
faulty  generalisation.  He  was  travelling  first-class  from 
force  of  habit  and  he  sat  opposite  the  new  Bishop  of  Med- 
borough, — Dr.  Stewart  Browne  had  received  his  preferment 
and  gone  to  London  some  ten  months  before. 

Dr.  Olivier,  his  successor,  was  of  a  different  type,  more 
aristocratic  and  less  scholarly.  His  ritualistic  tendencies 
were  regarded  with  a  slight  suspicion  by  the  older  Cathedral 
clergy,  but  he  had  the  full  support  of  the  new  Dean — the 
only  person  of  importance  in  this  connexion.  The  late 
Dean,  who  would  have  brooked  no  interference  with  his 
authority  over  the  Cathedral  services,  had  been  promoted 
to  the  Bishopric  of  Worcester  eighteen  months  before  Lon- 
don fell  vacant,  and  those  who  understood  the  policy  that 
influenced  the  choice  of  those  high  appointments,  had 
guessed  that  the  way  was  being  prepared  for  Olivier.  In- 
deed, some  of  the  prophets  went  further  and  predicted  that 
their  new  bishop  was  destined  for  York,  if  not  for  Canter- 
bury. Medborough  was  an  acknowledged  stepping  stone  to 
the  highest  ecclesiastical  offices. 

Dr.  Olivier  regarded  his  sole  fellow  passenger  with  an 


JULY,  1903  305 

enquiring  interest  during  the  first  half  of  the  journey  from 
Kings  Cross  to  Medborough.  He  had  come  from  a  West- 
end  living,  and  rather  flattered  himself  on  his  ability  to 
"place"  strangers.  Dickie,  at  the  age  of  twenty-eight,  proved 
uncommonly  difficult  to  place.  His  tweed  suit  and  the  soft 
hat  that  he  wore  well  at  the  back  of  his  head,  his  big, 
powerful  frame  and  the  strong  movements  of  his  capable 
hands,  all  seemed  to  indicate  the  athlete.  On  this  evidence 
he  might  have  been  judged  to  be,  perhaps,  one  of  those 
brilliant  amateurs  who  devote  the  whole  summer  to  first- 
class  cricket — a  young  man  of  independent  means  whose 
ambition  was  satisfied  by  the  certainty  of  a  place  in  the 
Test  Matches  between  England  and  Australia. 

The  Bishop,  leaning  back  in  his  corner  and  taking  quiet 
observations  from  behind  the  cover  of  his  Church  Times, 
hesitated  over  the  theory  of  the  independent  amateur  and 
rejected  it  on  physiognomical  grounds.  Dickie's  face  was 
not  the  face  of  a  man  who  lived  for  games ;  and  that  steady, 
incisive  stare  of  his  had  a  quality  that  Olivier  remembered 
in  one  or  two  successful  business  men  among  his  late  con- 
gregation. And  then  those  two  contradictory  inferences 
were  both  qualified  by  a  notable  air  of  boyishness,  even  of 
innocence.  This  was  a  man,  Olivier  thought,  who  might 
suddenly  ask  some  absurdly  ingenuous  question. 

The  Bishop  recrossed  his  gaiters  and  laid  the  Church 
Times  on  his  apron.  Dickie  had  not  attempted  to  read  since 
he  entered  the  compartment.  For  a  moment  the  two  men 
looked  thoughtfully  at  each  other,  and  then  the  Bishop 
smiled  graciously  and  said: 

"I  have  been  taking  the  liberty  of  speculating  as  to  your 
profession.  I  must  admit  to  a  quite  impertinent  curiosity 
in  my  fellow-men." 

"You  are  Dr.  Olivier,  aren't  you?"  returned  Dickie, 
bluntly. 

"Your  deduction  was  not  a  difficult  one,"  the  Bishop  said, 
"if  you  happen  to  take  an  interest  in  the  affairs  of  the 
church." 


306  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"My  father  is  one  of  your  clergy,"  explained  Dickie. 
"My  name  is  Lynneker." 

"Ah!  the  Rector  of  Halton,"  Olivier  exclaimed,  paused 
as  if  he  would  make  some  comment  and  went  on:  "And 
then  there  are  two  of  your  brothers  surely  in  my  diocese, 
at  Thrapley  and  Culver.  Are  you  the  only  one  of  the 
family  out  of  orders?" 

"I  was  in  the  City  &  County  Bank  of  Medborough  for  six 
years,"  Dickie  said,  "and  since  then  I've  been  five  years 
with  Brian  Lessing, — you  may  have  heard  of  him,  a  finan- 
cier in  the  grand  style,  you  know, — now  I'm  going  home  for 
three  months  to  decide  what  I'm  going  to  do." 

"Finance  does  not  interest  you  ?"  Olivier  enquired. 

"It  does,  immensely ;  but  I  can't  see  my  future  in  it." 

"You  want  to  make  money  more  quickly;  or  is  it  fame, 
perhaps  ?" 

"That  isn't  the  point  at  all,"  Dickie  said.  "I  want  to  be 
sure  about  certain  things.  Look  here,  sir.  Lessing  said  a 
day  or  two  ago  that  one  must  be  either  a  master  or  a  slave. 
Now  that  seems  to  me  a  faulty  classification,  don't  you  think 
so?" 

"Too  categorical,  perhaps,"  Olivier  hazarded  safely,  with 
a  doubt  as  to  whether  he  would  be  understood.  That  brief 
account  of  his  travelling-companion's  business  career  held 
little  suggestion  of  any  acquaintance  with  philosophy. 

"Precisely,"  Dickie  agreed  with  approval.  "I  am  getting 
sick  of  these  water-tight  compartments — they  don't  work." 

"Mankind  is  certainly  not  to  be  classified  under  arbitrary 
headings,"  admitted  the  Bishop,  and  reflected  that  this 
original  young  man  had  little  in  common  with  his  two 
elder  brothers.  He  found  that  his  companion  was  regard- 
ing him  with  steady  enquiry. 

"You  can't  believe  that,  you  know,"  Dickie  remarked. 

Olivier  smiled  gravely.  "I  don't  see  why  not,"  he  said, 
his  thoughts  still  busy  with  the  classification  of  Brian  Les- 
sing. 

"It's  the  essential  of  your  whole  dogma,"  Dick  returned. 
"Good  men  and  sinners,  sheep  and  goats,  heaven  and  hell. 


JULY,  1903  307 

All  hard  and  fast  categories.  The  English  church  doesn't 
admit  the  fine  shades  that  get  their  chance  in  Purgatory." 

But  the  Bishop  was  on  his  own  ground  there.  "In  effect 
it  does,"  he  said  and  proceeded  to  give  his  authorities  for 
the  doctrine  of  the  "Saving  Grace." 

Dickie  listened  attentively.  "That  is  all  splendid  com- 
mon sense,"  he  said,  when  the  argument  had  been  rounded 
up,  "but  how  do  you  reconcile  it  with  your  subscription  to 
the  Athanasian  Creed  and  the  thirty-nine  articles?" 

Olivier's  smile  became  slightly  whimsical  and  he  leaned 
forward  and  touched  Dickie's  knee.  "I  don't  try  very  hard," 
he  said,  "but  you  must  not  give  me  away  at  Halton.  Your 
father  might  be  a  little  shocked  if  he  knew  that  I  had  dis- 
carded the  idea  of  Eternal  Punishment.  But  to  be  quite 
honest  with  you,  that  idea  nearly  kept  me  out  of  the  church." 

Dickie  grinned  his  appreciation  of  the  confidence. 
"Doesn't  that  make  it  a  little  difficult  for  you — episcopally  ?" 
he  asked. 

"Only  with  a  few  of  the  older  clergy,"  Olivier  said,  and 
went  on  to  expound  the  need,  as  he  saw  it,  for  vitalising 
the  church.  It  seemed  that  he  was  of  the  new  school  and 
sought  a  greater  rapprochement  between  science  and 
theology. 

"You're  horribly  handicapped  by  the  necessity  for  ex- 
pediency, aren't  you?"  was  Dickie's  comment  when  the 
other  had  finished. 

"In  a  sense,  yes,"  Olivier  admitted.  "But  I  don't  believe 
in  iconoclasm.  The  people  understand  the  old  symbols, 
and  one  is  better  advised  to  use  them,  than  to  attempt  the 
invention  of  an  entirely  new  set.  That  is  what  evolution 
means  to  me,  a  gradual  change  and  development." 

"Oh,  yes,  I'm  coming  to  think  you're  right,"  Dickie 
agreed.  "I  gave  up  the  chance  of  a  political  career  six  years 
ago,  because  I  refused  to  admit  any  virtue  in  the  doctrine 
of  expediency.  I'm  not  sure  now  that  I  might  not  have 
done  something  by  using  the  old  material  in  my  own  way." 

The  grind  of  the  brakes  warned  them  that  they  were 


308  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

very  near  Medborough,  and  the  Bishop  stood  up  and  took 
down  his  top-hat  from  the  rack. 

"I  wish  you  would  come  and  see  me,"  he  said,  as  the  train 
ran  into  the  station.  "You  have  interested  me  greatly.  Did 
you  say  you  would  be  at  Halton  for  some  months  ?" 

"Three  months,  probably,"  Dickie  said. 

The  Bishop  held  out  his  hand.  "Well,  will  you  come  and 
lunch  with  me  one  day?  I'll  write  to  you,"  he  said.  "I'm 
not  quite  sure  of  my  appointments  at  the  moment.  And, 
let  me  see,  I  don't  know  your  Christian  name.  .  .  ." 

On  the  platform,  respectfully  awaiting  recognition,  stood 
two  porters  and  Eleanor. 

"Dick!  Did  the  Bishop  invite  you  to  lunch?"  Eleanor 
asked  after  the  briefest  of  greetings. 

"Did  you  know  him  before  ?"  was  her  next  question,  and 
then,  "Why  were  you  travelling  'first'  ?" 

Dickie  realised  then  that  even  so  long  a  period  as  five 
years  was  not  necessarily  a  period  of  growth,  and  that  he 
had  much  to  explain  to  them  all  at  the  Rectory  about  him- 
self. He  had  had  so  little  time  during  those  short  week-end 
visits  of  his. 


in 

Eleanor  had  driven  in  with  Archer,  the  Rectory  factotum, 
in  the  Stanhope.  Archer  and  the  cob  were  new  to  Dickie, 
but  he  had  always  known  the  Stanhope.  The  Rector  had 
had  it  built  for  him  in  Medborough  the  year  after  he  was 
married,  and  although  the  dark  green  cloth  of  the  uphol- 
stery was  disgracefully  shabby,  the  body  was  still  reliable 
and  it  had  had  new  wheels  fitted  only  ten  years  before. 
Dickie  drove,  and  Archer  occupied  the  reversible  back  seat, 
set  to  face  away  from  the  horse.  None  of  that  family  had 
ever  seen  that  seat  arranged  to  face  forward  in  the  proper 
Stanhope  fashion,  the  Rector  had  always  maintained  that 
it  threw  the  balance  too  far  back. 

Eleanor  gave  her  brother  no  confidences  during  the  four- 


JULY,  1903  309 

mile  drive.  At  the  outset  she  had  indicated  Archer  as  a 
check  to  intimate  conversation.  He  was  not  a  Halton  man, 
but  he  had  married  a  girl  from  the  village  and  inferentially 
was  not  to  be  trusted  with  any  Lynneker  news,  particularly 
of  the  kind  that  had  not  already  been  communicated  to  her 
brother  by  letter. 

Their  conversation  chiefly  concerned  the  eminently  safe 
topic  of  Dr.  Olivier.  Dickie  was -reserved  in  his  account 
of  the  subject  discussed  in  the  train, — he  knew  that  Eleanor 
clung  hopefully  to  the  theory  of  Eternal  Punishment  and 
found  much  consolation  in  the  belief  that  those  people  who 
persistently  annoyed  her  would  undoubtedly  envy  her 
through  eternity, — but  he  asked  many  questions  about  the 
Bishop's  popularity  in  his  diocese. 

"He  is  popular/'  Eleanor  decided  with  her  habitual  frown. 
She  seemed  never  to  give  an  opinion  now  without  hinting 
some  important  qualification  that  could  not  be  disclosed. 
"And  so  is  Lady  Constance,"  she  added.  Olivier  had  mar- 
ried the  daughter  of  a  peer. 

"But  .  .  ."  prompted  Dickie. 

Eleanor  glanced  at  Archer's  unconcerned  back  and  shook 
her  head  warningly.  "Every  one  appears  to  like  him,"  she 
said  in  a  carrying  voice;  and  Dickie  inferred  that  Dr. 
Olivier's  views  with  regard  to  the  "saving  grace"  were  not 
unknown  at  Halton. 

"Seems  a  good  sort,"  he  remarked.    "No  side  about  him." 

"What  an  odd  thing  to  say  of  a  Bishop,"  Eleanor  com- 
mented. 

At  thirty-five  she  had  solved  her  own  personal  problem. 
While  her  father  lived,  she  admitted  a  necessary  diversion ; 
she  must  do  for  him  all  that  her  mother  had  failed  to  do. 
When  he  died  she  would  mourn  for  him,  count  his  death 
as  the  great  tragedy  of  her  life,  and  devote  herself  with 
an  undisturbed  singleness  of  purpose  to  what  she  believed 
to  be  the  service  of  God.  Already  the  villagers  feared  her 
as  they  had  never  feared  the  Rector,  although  he,  too,  had 
been  liable  to  prejudice,  in  his  judgments  on  their  moral 
short-comings.  And  the  curate  whose  services  had  become 


310  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

essential  as  Mr.  Lynneker  grew  older,  breathed  a  clerical 
anathema  when  he  saw  Eleanor  coming  up  the  brick  path 
to  his  cottage  door.  The  poor  man  had  enough  worries 
with  three  children  between  the  ages  of  ten  and  fifteen 
and  an  income  of  £140  a  year — counting  his  wife's  little 
patrimony — to  provide  for  everything.  Miss  Lynneker  ap- 
peared to  think  he  was  wasting  his  time  because  he  devoted 
the  best  part  of  his  morning  to  the  education  of  his  two 
boys;  but  he  was  determined  that  she  should  not  compel 
him  to  send  Ernest  to  the  National  School,  and  Frank, 
who  was  too  old  for  that,  must  be  prepared  for  some  voca- 
tion. Mr.  Watson  hoped  that  his  Rector's  influence  might 
get  Frank  into  the  City  &  County  Bank  when  he  was  seven- 
teen. He  was  a  willing  boy  but  rather  stupid  at  figures. 
Eleanor's  theory  of  serving  God  gave  her  little  opportunity 
for  winning  the  love  of  her  fellows.  She  sought  Divine, 
not  human  approval.  The  criticisms  and  reactions  of  three 
brothers  and  a  sister  had  distracted  her  until  she  was  thirty. 
After  that  she  had  seen  her  way  clearly. 

"Even  bishops  were  once  naughty  little  boys  at  school," 
remarked  Dickie  cheerfully,  and  disregarded  his  sister's 
frown  of  displeasure.  She  had  always  frowned  on  him 
since  that  avowal  of  agnosticism  in  the  Rectory  drawing- 
room,  but  he  never  deliberately  annoyed  her.  He  was 
sorry  for  "poor  old  Eleanor,  she  had  never  had  a  chance" ; 
but  since  he  had  been  so  long  away,  he  was  a  little  apt  to 
forget  how  immeasurably  her  outlook  differed  from  his 
own. 

And  just  now  he  was  looking  out  with  a  fresh  eagerness 
for  his  fi^st  sight  of  Halton  spire.  They  were  nearly  at  the 
crest  of  the  road  across  the  common,  and  he  wanted  to 
get  a  new  impression  that  might  blend  with  his  sight  of 
Notre  Dame  and  Westminster  and  the  Tower,  and  give 
him  a  key  to  the  meaning  of  Halton  in  the  scheme  of  life. 
But  when,  at  last,  he  saw  the  point  of  the  spire  pricking 
up  behind  the  elms,  it  made  him  think  of  the  days  when 
he  rode  home  along  that  road  from  the  City  &  County. 
He  remembered  his  hot  desire  for  knowledge  and  wondered 


JULY,  1903  311 

if  he  had  not  sought  the  wrong  kind.  If  he  had  had  a  differ- 
ent education,  he  might  have  gone  in  for  scientific  research. 
That  would  have  given  him  an  unending  path  along  which 
to  prosecute  the  long  enquiry,  although,  like  any  other 
specialisation,  the  study  of  biology  or  molecular  physics 
would  but  illuminate  one  of  many  side  issues,  even  if  he 
achieved  some  great  discovery.  He  could  never  hope  to  do 
more  than  that,  of  course;  to  add  some  tiny  contribution 
to  knowledge  was  all  that  the  greatest  mind  could  hope  to 
accomplish  in  a  lifetime ;  the  deeper  the  enquiry,  the  further 
one  departed  from  the  possibility  of  any  synthesis  such  as 
that  which  so  completely  satisfied  his  sister.  But  some  in- 
stinct of  his  mind  revolted  from  the  thought  of  an  intense 
specialisation  that  would  rob  him  of  his  power  of  choice. 
His  five  years  in  Austin  Friars  had  shown  him  that  great 
success  in  any  one  activity  was  not  to  be  achieved  without 
training  and  concentration ;  and  experimental  science  would 
make  greater  demands  upon  his  powers  of  absorption  than 
the  comparatively  wide  interests  of  the  money-market. 
Moreover,  he  was  at  present  intrigued  by  this  mystery  of 
Halton's  place  as  a  symbol  in  the  larger  scheme.  He  must 
satisfy  himself  with  some  explanation  of  that  before  he 
decided  upon  his  future.  Recently  he  had  had  an  idea  of 
making  a  reasonable  fortune  within  the  next  ten  years  and 
then  devoting  it  to  some  scheme  of  education.  He  had 
heard  that  Oakstone  had  been  reorganised  under  its  new 
head-master,  and  he  meant  to  go  over  and  see  what  was 
being  done  there.  He  was  home  just  in  time  for  speech- 
day.  .  .  . 

They  had  come  down  the  hill  into  the  village  before  his 
vague  thought  arrived  at  the  intention  to  go  to  Oakstone, 
the  next  day ;  and  the  wide-armed  church  stood  now  in  full 
elevation,  grave,  steadfast  and  kindly,  as  he  had  always 
remembered  it. 

Eleanor  had  relapsed  into  silence  after  his  unseemly  re- 
minder that  bishops  were  of  the  same  flesh  and  blood  as 
other  men,  but  she  had  evidently  been  drawing  her  own 
inferences  from  Dickie's  speech,  for  when  she  spoke,  her 


THESE  LYNNEKERS 

tone  had  the  effect  of  sinking  to  a  final  conclusion  rather 
than  of  seeking  information. 

"I  suppose  you  never  go  to  church  in  London,"  she  said. 

"I  do,  often,"  Dickie  replied.  "St.  Paul's  and  the  Abbey, 
and  St.  Alban's,  occasionally." 

"St.  Alban's !"  Eleanor  repeated.    "Isn't  that  very  'high'  ?" 

Halton  certainly  had  no  plain  message  for  Dickie  that 
afternoon. 


IV 

He  found  that  his  father  had  greatly  altered  during  the 
last  twelve  months.  The  old  man  was  in  his  seventy-sixth 
year,  but  the  marks  of  the  change  were  not  those  of  senility. 
He  had  always  been  thin,  but  now  the  hollows  in  his  temples 
and  cheeks  were  so  deep,  that  the  shape  of  the  skull  peered 
through  the  disguise  of  the  flesh.  Yet  his  eyes  and  carriage 
were  not  those  of  one  whose  faculties  were  being  slowly 
obscured  by  decay;  a  stranger  might  have  judged  him  to 
be  a  man  of  sixty-five,  prematurely  aged  by  some  vital 
disease. 

"I  say,  pater,  how  thin  you  are,"  Dickie  exclaimed  anx- 
iously when  he  and  his  father  had  kissed.  For  a  moment 
Dickie's  strong  young  hand  had  rested  on  a  shoulder  from 
which  the  deltoid  appeared  to  have  completely  vanished, 
leaving  only  some  mechanical  structure  of  inexplicable  mov- 
able bones. 

"I  don't  attend  City  dinners,"  the  Rector  said  with  a  little 
laugh, — his  voice  was  as  sound  as  ever — and  then  he  went 
on  quickly:  "So  you're  really  honouring  us  with  a  long 
visit  on  this  occasion,  eh,  Dick?  And  there's  another  sur- 
prise. I  suppose  Eleanor  told  you  that  Adela  is  coming 
home  at  the  end  of  next  month?" 

"Is  she?  By  Jove!  Oh,  good!  No,  Eleanor  didn't  tell 
me,"  exclaimed  Dickie  in  jerks,  as  he  greeted  his  mother, 
who  held  him  as  if  she  found  some  deep  consolation  in  the 
strength  of  his  body. 


JULY,  1903  313 

"How  solid  you  are,  dear,"  she  said,  patting  him  fondly. 

"It's  eight  years  since  she  ran  away,"  put  in  Eleanor. 
They  had  moved  into  the  hall  and  the  dying  sound  of 
wheels  on  the  gravel  indicated  that  Archer  was  out  of  ear- 
shot driving  the  Stanhope  round  to  the  stables. 

"Edward  was  married  in  July,  '95,"  murmured  Mrs.  Lyn- 
neker  automatically. 

"What  about  the  children?"  Dickie  asked. 

"She  is  bringing  the  two  youngest  with  her,"  Mrs.  Lyn- 
neker  said.  "The  other  three  are  staying  out  there  with  their 
grandmother.  Old  Mrs.  Oliver  is  still  alive,  you  know." 

The  Rector  had  strayed  back  to  the  porch  and  was  re- 
garding Dickie's  luggage.  "Archer  had  better  come  and 
carry  all  this  upstairs,"  he  said.  "There's  enough  for  a 
voyage  round  the  world." 

Dickie  laughed.  His  father  had  always  criticised  the 
quantity  of  luggage  required  by  the  younger  generation. 

"I'll  take  it  up  all  right,  pater,"  he  said.  "Can't  manage 
on  the  haversack  you  used  to  do  with." 

The  Rector  did  not  answer.  He  wore  a  look  of  sudden 
abstraction  as  if  he  had  lost  the  sense  of  his  surroundings. 

"There's  some  lunch  waiting  for  you  and  Eleanor,"  Mrs. 
Lynneker  said,  grasping  the  solid  consolation  of  her  son's 
arm.  "We've  had  ours." 

"I  say,  mother,  is  father  ill  ?"  asked  Dickie,  as  he  allowed 
himself  to  be  led  into  the  dining-room. 

A  faint  tinge  of  added  colour  came  into  Mrs.  Lynneker's 
cheeks  and  she  looked  round  for  Eleanor,  who  had  left 
them  and  gone  upstairs. 

"He's  so  frightfully  thin,"  Dickie  persisted. 

"He  hasn't  been  well,"  his  mother  said  hurriedly.  "It's 
his  old  gastric  trouble,  he  thinks,"  and  she  turned  her  back 
on  him,  went  over  to  the  other  side  of  the  room  and  rang 
the  bell. 

No  more  was  said  then,  for  the  Rector  had  come  in  from 
the  porch  and  was  standing  at  the  dining-room  door. 

"Aren't  you  coming  in  to  watch  me  eat,  father?"  Dickie 
said. 


314  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"I  must  write  a  letter  first;  I'll  come  in  presently,"  his 
father  returned. 

"He  never  likes  to  sit  doing  nothing  while  other  people 
are  eating,"  explained  Mrs.  Lynneker  as  if  she  were  de- 
scribing the  habits  of  a  stranger. 

The  Rector  turned  and  walked  across  the  hall  to  his  study. 
He  shut  the  door  after  him  with  a  hesitation  that  made 
Dickie  wonder  if  the  old  man  had  believed  himself  dis- 
missed. 

"Really  he  doesn't,  dear,  not  now,"  his  mother  was  say- 
ing anxiously,  and  when  Eleanor  came  down,  a  moment 
later,  she  was  instantly  appealed  to  for  confirmation. 

"It's  his  old  gastric  trouble,"  Eleanor  said.  "I'll  go  and 
see  if  there's  anything  I  can  get  for  him." 

Dickie  noticed  that  she  entered  the  study  without  knock- 
ing. None  of  them,  not  even  his  mother,  had  ever  done 
that  in  the  old  days. 

"Oughtn't  he  to  take  advice  about  it?"  he  asked  when  he 
and  his  sister  were  having  lunch. 

"He  has,"  Eleanor  said  coldly.  "I  think  you  can  trust 
us,  Dick,  to  look  after  him."  She  looked  defiantly  at  her 
mother  as  if  she  dared  her  to  speak. 

Mrs.  Lynneker  sat  very  still  and  compressed  her  lips. 
She  wore  a  look  of  weak  determination  and  that  faint 
colour  shone  again  in  her  cheeks,  as  if  she  had  been  de- 
tected upon  some  questionable  purpose. 

She,  too,  was  thinner,  but  her  loss  of  flesh  was  evidently 
due  solely  to  the  shrivelling  of  age.  She  stooped  a  little, 
now,  in  her  walk,  and  her  shoulders  were  rounded.  At 
sixty-six  she  looked  in  many  ways  older  than  her  husband. 
He  appeared  to  be  fighting  a  visible  enemy;  she  was  suc- 
cumbing infinitely  slowly,  without  apprehension. 

Indeed,  at  tea-time,  the  Rector  was  almost  sprightly.  He 
drank  only  part  of  a  cup  of  very  weak  tea,  into  which  he 
sopped  a  few  crumbs  of  thin  bread  and  butter,  but  he 
talked  eagerly  of  his  boy's  prospects.  If  it  had  not  been 
for  that  startling  emaciation,  no  one  would  have  noticed 
any  change  in  him.  Not  once  during  the  meal  did  Dickie 


JULY,  1903  315 

catch  another  sight  of  that  air  of  abstracted  foreboding  his 
father  had  worn  for  a  moment  as  he  stood  staring  at  the 
luggage  in  the  porch. 

"I've  come  home  for  a  long  rest  in  order  to  make  a  de- 
cision, you  see,"  Dickie  explained  in  answer  to  one  of  his 
father's  questions.  He  thought  this  would  be  a  good  op- 
portunity to  put  his  problem  before  them,  once  and  for  all, 
while  they  were  together  and  had  their  attention  focussed 
upon  him.  He  expected  no  help  from  them,  but  he  wished 
his  father  and  mother  to  understand  his  dilemma. 

"Lessing  has  offered  me  a  kind  of  partnership,"  he  went 
on,  "and  I  don't  want  to  accept  it  until  I  see  my  way  quite 
clearly." 

"Does  he  impose  difficult  conditions?"  the  Rector  asked, 
and  the  other  two  looked  at  the  champion  of  their  fortunes 
with  the  same  air  of  puzzled  wonder  that  they  and  the  rest 
of  the  family  had  worn  in  that  room  eight  years  earlier, 
when  the  graceful  Martyn  had  so  charmingly  suggested  that 
this  youngest  of  the  Lynnekers  need  stop  short  at  nothing 
less  than  the  Premiership. 

Dickie  stumbled  over  his  reply.  "No,  he  doesn't,  exactly ; 
it's  just  the  conditions  imposed  by — by  everything,"  he  said. 
He  saw  himself  again  as  the  eager  boy  of  twenty,  and  re- 
membering all  his  old  desires  and  solidity  of  purpose,  he 
had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  the  youth  had  a  finer  sense  of 
values  than  the  man. 

"But  what  conditions  .  .  ."  Mrs.  Lynneker  began,  and 
then  gave  place  to  her  husband,  who  asked,  "Wouldn't  a 
partnership  with  Mr.  Lessing  give  you  an  assured  income  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course,  there's  money  in  it,"  Dickie  said, 
frowning. 

The  Rector  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair.  "It  isn't  the 
chief  ambition  of  life,  certainly,"  he  admitted.  "At  the 
same  time  ...  it  is  ...  a  means.  .  .  ."  He  stooped  over 
his  tea-cup  and  fished  up  a  fragment  of  soaked  bread  and 
butter  with  his  spoon. 

"I've  got  enough  to  live  on,  you  know,"  Dickie  said,  and 


S16  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

they  all  looked  at  him  with  something  in  their  faces  between 
relief  and  amazement. 

It  was  Eleanor  who  put  the  essential  question  for  them. 

"What  do  you  call  enough  to  live  on,  Dick?"  she  asked. 

"About  five  hundred  a  year/'  Dickie  said,  trying  to  take 
their  estimate  of  a  competence  which  would  have  appeared 
so  insignificant  in  Austin  Friars. 

"But,  dear,  how  .  .  .  ?"  gasped  Mrs.  Lynneker. 

"Lessing  has  been  awfully  good  to  me ;  always  putting  me 
on  to  things  and  giving  me  commissions  on  deals  and  so 
on,"  Dickie  explained.  "It's  easy  enough  to  make  money 
when  you're  in  with  a  man  like  Lessing.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  I  could  have  made  a  lot  more  if  I'd  bothered  about  it." 

"More  than  this  living  is  worth  nowadays!"  commented 
Mr.  Lynneker  in  an  undertone. 

His  wife,  drooping  over  the  tea-tray,  seemed  to  brood  on 
the  fundamental  injustice  of  the  distribution  of  wealth. 
"But,  dear,  what  do  you  suppose  you'd  get  if  you  accepted 
this  partnership?"  was  the  outcome  of  her  meditations. 

"Couldn't  say,  exactly,"  Dickie  replied.  "We  haven't 
come  down  to  a  question  of  figures;  I  don't  suppose  we 
should  in  any  case.  Lessing  never  knows  from  day  to  day 
what  he's  worth ;  it  depends  on  the  day's  prices,  you  under- 
stand." 

"But  you  must  know  .  .  .  about  .  .  ."  his  mother  in- 
sisted. 

"Well,  it  wouldn't  be  less  than  three  or  four  thousand  a 
year  anyway,"  Dickie  said,  mentioning  a  safe  minimum, 
"but  it's  chiefly  a  question  of  what  was  doing  and  what 
opportunities  he  gave  me.  He  says  that  I'll  never  make  a 
first-rate  business  man, — not  keen  enough, — but  he -wants 
me  because  he  says  I'm  safe.  He  trusts  me  to  represent 
him  in  all  his  more  substantial  business  affairs,  you  know. 
I've  got  rather  a  good  memory  for  figures  and  important 
facts.  You'd  be  surprised  what  a  lot  of  room  there  is  for  a 
particular  kind  of  scholarship  in  business." 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  earn  three  or  four  thousand  a  year, 
dear?"  his  mother  asked  in  a  slightly  awed  voice.  It  was 


JULY,  1903  317 

so  long  since  the  conception  of  such  a  magnificent  income 
had  been  material  for  her  day-dreams. 

"Don't  know  quite  what  I  should  do  with  it,"  Dickie  said. 
"I've  thought  of  making  a  lot  of  money  quickly  and  start- 
ing an  education  scheme.  I'm  going  over  to  Oakstone  to- 
morrow for  the  speech-day;  I  want  to  see  what  they're 
doing  there,  now,  under  Moseley.  It's  altered  a  bit  since 
my  time,  I  believe." 

Eleanor  got  up,  took  away  her  father's  cup  and  patted 
the  cushion  at  the  back  of  his  chair.  He  accepted  her  fuss- 
ing with  a  slight  irritation,  but  he  did  not  actually  forbid 
it.  "It's  quite  all  right,  dear,  quite  all  right,"  he  said,  and 
leaned  back  so  that  she  could  not  interfere  further. 

She  stood  for  a  minute  behind  him,  with  her  thin,  rather 
graceful  hands  resting  on  the  back  of  his  chair. 

"Not  religious  education,  I  suppose?"  she  said,  looking 
down  at  her  brother. 

"Not  particularly,"  Dickie  admitted,  and  for  a  time  the 
conversation  was  diverted  by  a  parenthesis  of  the  Rector's, 
devoted  to  the  evils  that  must  arise  from  the  lack  of  re- 
ligious education  in  the  National  School  which  he  had  been 
unable  to  keep  out  of  Halton. 

Mrs.  Lynneker  brought  them  back  to  a  sense  of  the 
immediate  problem  by  saying  cheerfully,  "Well,  at  all  events, 
we've  got  three  months  to  talk  about  it.  We  ought  to  be 
able  to  decide  something  in  that  time." 

"That's  what  I  thought,"  agreed  Dickie. 

"You  could  do  so  much  on  three  or  four  thousand  a 
year,"  his  mother  urged,  by  way  of  leaving  a  fruitful 
suggestion  in  his  mind ;  and  although  the  obvious  quotation 
must  have  been  at  the  tip  of  Eleanor's  tongue,  she  did  not 
speak.  The  reference  would  not  have  hurt  her  brother, 
who  displayed  no  signs  of  "loving  money"  in  any  way 
whatever;  and  she  was  certainly  not  anxious  to  champion 
the  views  of  an  atheist.  But,  in  her  own  words,  Dickie 
was  "the  most  upsetting  person"  she  knew.  She  could  not 
even  convincingly  picture  him  condemned  to  eternal  pun- 
ishment. 


318  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"Well,  well,  we  shall  see,"  the  Rector  said  as  he  got  up 
to  go  to  his  study. 

His  walk  was  certainly  more  feeble  than  it  had  been  a 
year  ago,  but  he  impatiently  refused  Eleanor's  assistance. 
Nevertheless  she  followed  him  out  of  the  room. 

Dickie  looked  questioningly  at  his  mother. 

"Are  you  quite  sure  it's  only  gastric  ?"  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Lynneker  set  her  lips  in  their  old  weakly  deter- 
mined line. 

"You  mustn't  ask  me  anything  more  about  it,"  she  said. 
She  looked  as  if  she  were  on  the  verge  of  tears. 

And  then  Eleanor  came  back,  a  little  hurriedly,  as  if 
she  had  been  afraid  to  leave  those  two  alone. 


Dickie  knew  that  his  mother  wished  to  make  full  confi- 
dence and  that  Eleanor  was  no  less  anxious  for  the  secret, 
whatever  it  was,  to  be  kept  from  him.  Eleanor  had  cer- 
tainly altered  (or  was  it  developed?)  very  rapidly  in  five 
years.  He  had  been  too  absorbed  to  note  the  growing  dif- 
ference in  her  during  those  week-end  visits  of  his.  And  it 
seemed  now  that  he  had  been  inexcusably  thoughtless  in 
his  attitude  towards  Halton  since  he  had  been  away.  Hal- 
ton  had  always  appeared  so  enduring,  he  had  grown  into 
the  habit  of  assuming  that  it  would  go  on,  unaltered,  until 
he  had  time  to  attend  to  it.  Since  he  had  been  able  to  solve 
the  old  financial  anxieties  for  his  father  and  mother,  he  had 
pictured  them  growing  older,  but  not  dangerously  older,  in 
comfort. 

He  was  shocked  to  find  that  he  had  probably  come  home 
too  late.  He  had  waived  his  right  to  interfere,  and  Eleanor, 
at  least,  was  unwilling  to  reinstate  him.  He  was  not  dis- 
mayed by  her  opposition ;  he  intended  to  make  Eleanor  her- 
self tell  him  the  truth  about  his  father  that  evening — if  he 
chose  the  easier  course  of  making  an  assignation  with  his 
mother,  she  would  certainly  confess,  but  she  would  prob- 


JULY,  1903  319 

ably  blame  herself  later  and  be  painfully  reproached  by  her 
daughter.  What  discomforted  him  was  the  fact  that  his 
father  himself  was  playing  on  the  other  side ;  as  if  he,  too, 
felt  that  Dickie  had  gone  out  of  the  life  of  Halton  and  was 
henceforth  to  be  regarded  as  a  privileged  friend  who  must 
be  spared  any  such  painful  news  as  might  spoil  the  pleasure 
of  his  visit. 

Walking  up  and  down  the  front  lawn  before  supper, 
under  the  immediate  surveillance  of  that  grey,  calm  church, 
Dickie  felt  that  he  had  much  ground  to  recover  before  he 
could  hope  to  read  the  secret  of  Halton.  .  .  . 

The  disclosure  of  the  true  facts  concerning  his  father's 
illness,  however,  was  precipitated  by  an  incident  at  the 
supper-table. 

The  Rector's  meal  was  made  up  of  a  basin  of  rather  thin 
"Revelenta,"  into  which  he  soaked  a  few  crumbs  of  bread. 
He  hesitated  over  it  from  the  first. 

"She  makes  this  stuff  too  thick,"  he  said. 

Eleanor  immediately  got  up  and  examined  the  preparation, 
stirring  it  attentively  and  testing  the  consistency  of  it. 

"I  think  not,  dear,"  she  decided  firmly.  "You  really  must 
get  more  nourishment." 

Her  father  seemed  to  acquiesce  from  sheer  inertia,  or 
because  he  preferred  not  to  raise  any  discussion  before  his 
son. 

And  then,  before  the  basin  of  "Revelenta"  was  half  fin- 
ished, he  put  his  napkin  to  his  mouth,  got  up  quickly  from 
the  table  and  left  the  room.  Dickie  heard  him  go  out  of  the 
front  door  and  presently  return  to  his  own  study. 

Eleanor,  after  an  obvious  moment  of  vacillation,  also  left 
the  table  and  went  to  her  father. 

"Does  that  stuff  make  him  sick?"  asked  Dickie  bluntly. 

His  mother  shook  her  head.  She  kept  her  eyes  down  and 
would  not  look  at  him. 

"What  is  the  trouble,  then?"  Dickie  insisted. 

Mrs.  Lynneker  was  full  of  distress.  "You  ought  to 
know,"  she  said. 


320  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"I  must  know,"  Dickie  returned.    "I  must  ask  Eleanor." 

"She'll  never  tell  you,"  Mrs.  Lynneker  said. 

"She  will,"  Dickie  replied  calmly.    "Why  shouldn't  she?" 

Mrs.  Lynneker  drooped  despondently  over  her  plate. 
"She  manages  everything  now,"  she  said.  "I  daresay  it's 
better  that  she  should.  She's  very  capable  in  some  ways. 
But  I'm  not  sure  that  your  father  likes  to  be  interfered  with 
so  much.  He  has  always  hated  anything  like  a  fuss."  She 
stopped  abruptly  at  the  sound  of  the  study  door. 

Eleanor  came  back  alone. 

"Father  says  that  he'll  come  in  after  supper,"  she  an- 
nounced with  an  assumption  of  calmness.  "Emma  made  the 
Revelenta  too  thick  to-night.  I  must  tell  her  about  it." 

She  sat  down  and  looked  defiantly  back  at  her  brother- 
who  was  steadily  staring  at  her  across  the  table. 

"I  want  to  know,  Eleanor,"  he  said  quietly.  His  face 
wore  a  look  of  obstinacy  that  was  familiar  enough  to  a  few 
financiers  in  the  City  of  London.  "When  you  see  that  cub 
of  Lessing's  settle  himself  down  to  it,  you  may  just  as  well 
start  another  hand,"  one  of  the  lesser  lights  of  company 
promoting  had  said  on  a  certain  occasion, — he  was  certainly 
sore  at  the  time, — and  he  would  have  decided  that  the  "cub" 
had  settled  himself  down  to  extort  the  truth  now  from  his 
sister. 

"There  is  nothing  to  know,"  she  said,  and  tried  first  to 
hold  her  brother's  stare  and  then  to  release  herself  from  it. 
Her  thin,  graceful  hands  were  passionately  clenched  together 
in  her  lap. 

"Is  there  a  growth  ?"  asked  Dickie. 

"What  is  it  to  do  with  you  ?"  she  said  bitterly. 

"Is  there  a  growth  ?"  repeated  Dickie.  There  was  some- 
thing brutal  in  the  flat  repetition  of  his  question.  It  seemed 
as  if  he  were  capable  of  continuing  for  all  time  that  single, 
remorseless  enquiry  without  change  of  phrase  or  tone. 

The  tears  sprang  to  Eleanor's  eyes  as  if  she  were,  indeed, 
suffering  great  physical  torture.  "I  won't  tell  you.  ...  I 
won't  tell  you,"  she  gasped. 

"You  have  told  me,"  Dickie  said,  and  he  slightly  pushed 


JULY,  1903  321 

back  his  chair  and,  as  it  were,  released  her.  " Where  is  it? 
Isn't  an  operation  possible?"  he  asked. 

Eleanor  sat  quite  still.  The  strain  had  been  relaxed,  but 
she  had  been  wrung  and  twisted  and  could  find  no  allevia- 
tion for  her  pain.  Her  head  fell  a  little  forward  and  her 
breath  panted  as  if  she  had  been  running. 

"You  take  everything  and  give  nothing,"  she  said  at  last 
in  a  low  voice.  "You  come  down,  a  stranger,  and  try  to 
steal  everything  from  us.  You're  obstinate  and  cruel  and 
you  abuse  your  strength  for  your  own  purposes."  Then 
she  looked  up  with  a  new  access  of  courage  and  went  on : 
"Mother  can  tell  you  if  she  likes;  /  won't — never!  Never. 
And  I  won't  let  you  interfere  with  him — you  think  you  can 
take  him  from  me,  too,  but  you  can't.  He's  dependent  on 
me.  He  wants  me."  Her  tears  choked  her,  but  as  she 
went  out  of  the  room,  she  turned  and  said :  "He  didn't 
want  you  to  know.  He  asked  me  and  mother  not  to  say 
anything  to  you." 

"It  must  have  been  an  awful  strain  for  you  two,"  Dickie 
said  tenderly  when  his  sister  had  gone,  and  he  got  up  and 
kissed  his  mother  affectionately. 

She  clung  to  him  with  weak  passion.  "I  don't  mind  so 
much,  now  you  know,"  she  said.  "Eleanor  is  so — hard." 


VI 

"Shall  we  go  into  the  other  room?"  Dickie  suggested. 

He  was  aware  of  an  anxiety  to  get  away  from  the  asso- 
ciations of  the  supper-table.  Eleanor's  unexpected  hysteria 
had  deepened  the  emotion  that  surrounded  the  realisation 
of  his  father's  fatal  illness;  and  all  the  pathetic  evidences 
of  little  material  things  were  full  of  sadness.  The  basin  of 
half-finished  "Revelenta,"  the  spoon  laid  down  so  hastily 
that  it  had  fallen  on  the  cloth ;  Eleanor's  untidy  plate,  were 
all  symbols  of  intense  human  disturbance,  marking  the  sharp 
intrusion  of  tragedy. 

"Have  you  finished,  dear?"  his  mother  asked.    "You  had 


THESE  LYNNEKERS 

such  a  makeshift  dinner."  She  looked  regretfully  at  an 
untouched  jelly,  finding  her  pathos  in  the  thought  that  it 
had  been  made  especially  for  him. 

He  nodded,  holding  out  his  hand  to  help  her  to  her  feet, 
and  as  they  went  across  the  hall  and  down  the  long  passage 
to  the  drawing-room,  he  put  his  arm  about  her  as  if  she 
needed  his  physical  support.  He  was  conscious  of  his 
strength  and  independence  as  of  a  barrier  between  him  and 
some  indefinable  thing  that  he  was  ardently  seeking. 

"Your  being  here  is  such  a  comfort  to  me,"  his  mother 
said,  when  she  had  sat  down  on  the  old  sofa  in  the  same 
seat  from  which  she  had  made  confession  to  him  of  her 
debt  to  the  Loan  Company.  "You've  always  been  a  com- 
fort to  me,"  she  added.  "None  of  the  others  could  under- 
stand." 

Dickie  sat  by  her  and  took  her  hand  in  his.  "I  want 
you  to  tell  me  all  about  the  pater,"  he  said.  The  old  term 
seemed  inevitable  in  those  circumstances. 

"It  began  months  ago,"  his  mother  replied.  "He  found 
he  could  not  eat  things  like  potato,  it  wouldn't  go  down, 
and  he  had  to  get  up  as  he  did  to-night  and  get  rid  of  it. 
And  you  know  what  he  is,  he  wouldn't  tell  any  one.  .  .  ." 

"Not  even  Eleanor?"  put  in  Dickie. 

"He  didn't  tell  either  of  us  till  he  was  obliged  to.  We 
couldn't  help  noticing  that  something  serious  was  wrong, 
of  course,  and  Eleanor  was  always  asking  him  what  it  was. 
He  told  me  first  about  two  months  ago,  weeks  after  he'd 
seen  Dr.  Price  in  Medborough, — he'd  never  said  a  word 
about  having  seen  him  till  then, — and  then  he  told  me  it  was 
quite  hopeless,  only  a  question  of  time,  and  that  nothing 
whatever  could  be  done.  Dr.  Price  had  told  him  that  he 
might  live  a  year,  or  even  longer  if  he  would  consent  to  be 
fed  artificially." 

"He  won't  submit  to  that,  I  suppose  ?"  Dickie  asked. 

"He  says  not,  but  don't  you  think  he  ought  ?"  His  mother 
returned  a  little  querulously. 

Dick's  lips  were  screwed  into  a  thoughtful  pout.     Why, 


JULY,  1903  323 

after  all,  he  asked  himself,  should  his  father's  torture  be 
unnecessarily  prolonged  ? 

"Couldn't  you  say  something  about  it?"  Mrs.  Lynneker 
persisted. 

The  lamp  had  not  been  brought  in;  the  July  dusk  was 
warm  with  the  smell  of  the  roses  that  climbed  all  over  the 
front  of  the  house.  And  the  familiar  scent  carried  Dickie 
back  through  all  the  old  associations ;  the  sound  of  the  or- 
gan's rumbling  and  the  attention  that  was  necessary  to 
catch  the  air  if  one  would  be  sure  whether  that  was  posi- 
tively the  hymn  after  the  sermon — he  could  see  his  mother's 
listening  face  and  the  look  of  triumph  that  came  to  her 
when  she  could  catch  up  the  tune  and  soundlessly  frame 
the  words  of  the  hymn  with  her  lips; — then  the  hush  that 
preceded  the  voluntary,  and  later  the  sound  of  Eleanor  and 
Adela  talking  as  they  came  up  the  gravel  path;  and  the 
sight  of  his  father  in  cassock  and  mortar-board,  carrying 
his  surplice  over  his  arm,  and  hurrying  a  little  as  he  always 
did  when  he  was  in  his  canonicals.  It  seemed  so  impossible 
that  that  long  routine  could  ever  be  finally  broken.  How 
long  had  his  father  been  Rector  of  Halton?  Thirty-six  or 
seven  years.  .  .  . 

"Don't  you  think  he  ought,  dear?"  his  mother  repeated 
after  a  long  pause. 

"I  don't  know  why  he  should,"  Dickie  replied  absently. 

"It  seems  so  ...  so  ..."  Mrs.  Lynneker  began  and 
could  not  find  words  to  express  her  own  longing  to  live,  in 
terms  of  an  abstract  rectitude. 

"He  keeps  on  doing  his  best  in  the  normal  way,"  Dickie 
explained.  "I  can  understand  how  he'd  hate  to  have  his 
body  interfered  with — being  fed  through  a  beastly  tube, 
just  for  the  sake  of  a  few  weeks  more  agony." 

"I  know,  he  has  always  been  like  that,"  Mrs.  Lynneker 
said  in  a  tone  that  seemed  to  accuse  her  husband  of  an  old, 
resented  peculiarity. 

"I  think  I  should  be  like  that,  too,"  Dickie  concluded. 

"He  hates  one  to  notice  it,"  Mrs.  Lynneker  added,  follow- 
ing her  own  line  of  thought. 


THESE  LYNNEKERS 

And  then  their  talk  was  interrupted  by  the  climax  of  the 
tenor  bell,  sounding  a  solitary,  penetrating  call  to  the  ring- 
ers. 

"Oh,  they  can't  be  going  to  practise  to-night,"  Mrs.  Lyn- 
neker  gasped  in  horror.  "Do  you  think  it's  because  you've 
come  home?" 

"Much  more  likely  because  it's  their  last  chance  before 
harvest,"  Dickie  thought. 

A  minute  or  two  later  the  Rector  came  in  with  a  fine 
assumption  of  cheerfulness.  "All  in  the  dark?"  he  said. 
"I'll  ring  for  the  lamp.  They're  going  to  celebrate  Dick's 
return,  I  think." 

Eleanor,  pale  and  composed,  had  joined  them  before  the 
ringing  clamour  of  the  full  peal  filled  the  drawing-room  with 
a  reverberation  that  made  conversation  impossible. 

"At  least,  let  us  have  the  windows  shut,"  pleaded  Mrs. 
Lynneker  with  her  hands  to  her  ears. 

The  Rector  was  leaning  back  in  his  arm-chair  with  a 
faint  smile  of  enjoyment  on  his  face.  Possibly  the  sound  of 
the  bells  carried  him  into  the  living  past,  as  the  smell  of 
roses  had  carried  Dickie. 


VII 

Mr.  Lynneker  had  almost  given  up  smoking  during  the 
last  two  months,  but  he  still  pottered  about  the  house,  some- 
times for  more  than  an  hour  after  prayers.  That  even- 
ing, however,  he  reverted  to  his  old  habit. 

"You  haven't  begun  to  smoke,  yet,  Dick  ?"  he  asked. 

"No,  not  yet,"  Dickie  said,  smiling. 

"Quite  right;  it's  a  lazy  habit,"  his  father  returned, 
paused  a  moment  and  then  added  :  "But  you  won't  be  going 
to  bed  for  half  an  hour,  I  presume?" 

"I  hardly  ever  go  before  twelve,"  Dickie  said.  "I  brought 
a  few  books  down.  .  .  ." 

"Ah!  well,  I  think  I  shall  have  one  cigarette  to-night," 
Mr.  Lynneker  announced,  and  disregarding  Eleanor's  pro- 


JULY,  1903  325 

test,  he  went  on :  "I've  come  down  to  cigarettes, — a  pipe 
is  a  little  too  strong  for  me  nowadays.  I  shall  find  you 
in  the  dining-room,  eh?  It  will  be  a  little  chilly  out- 
side. .  .  ." 

"I  suppose  mother  told  you  everything,"  Eleanor  said 
coldly,  when  her  father  had  gone  out  of  the  room. 

"All  she  knew,"  Dickie  said.  "I'm  going  to  see  Price 
to-morrow." 

"It's  no  use,"  Eleanor  returned.  "It's  no  use  at  all,  your 
interfering." 

"Dear  old  girl,  I'm  not  going  to  interfere,"  expostulated 
Dickie. 

"I  know  you  think  we  ought  to  have  let  you  know," 
Eleanor  continued,  overlooking  his  interruption,  "and  that 
you'll  say  we  ought  to  have  taken  other  advice,  and  so  on. 
I  daresay  you  believe  that  it  would  never  have  happened  if 
you'd  been  at  home."  She  paused  and  looked  at  him  and 
there  was  a  shade  of  doubt  in  her  expression,  as  if  behind 
all  her  defiance,  she  was  fearful  of  the  reproach  that  she 
might  have  done  more. 

"I  certainly  want  to  know  what  Price  has  to  say  about 
it,"  Dickie  admitted. 

"Dr.  Price  can't  tell  you  anything  that  I  don't  know," 
Eleanor  said.  "He'll  tell  you  that  it  might  have  been  pos- 
sible to  operate.  Perhaps  it  was,  then;  but  we  didn't  know, 
then.  Father  didn't  tell  us  anything  at  the  time,  and  we 
couldn't  have  made  him  undergo  an  operation,  even  if  we 
had  known." 

"You  needn't  be  so  defensive,"  Dickie  put  in. 

"You  always  know  so  much  better  than  any  one  else," 
Eleanor  retorted. 

Dickie  took  no  notice  of  that.  He  was  trying  to  under- 
stand Eleanor's  grievance,  not  to  champion  his  own  atti- 
tude; and  he  failed  to  realise  that  his  indifference  to  her 
attacks  upon  him  was  aggravating  her  sense  of  injury. 

"It's  almost  certainly  too  late  to  operate  now,"  he  said. 

"And  you  blame  me  for  not  having  guessed  sooner,  so  that 
I  might  have  got  your  help  and  insisted  upon  an  operation 


326  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

three  or  four  months  ago."  The  thin  suggestion  of  a  ques- 
tion still  underlay  the  bitterness  of  her  voice. 

"How  can  I  tell  you  that  before  I  have  heard  what  Price 
says  ?"  asked  Dickie. 

She  turned  away  from  him  as  if  she  could  no  longer 
endure  the  effort  of  opposition.  "Hadn't  you  better  go?" 
she  said.  "He's  waiting  for  you  in  the  dining-room.  /'// 
put  out  the  lamp.  I  always  lock  up  now,  but  perhaps  you'd 
like  to  do  it  while  you're  at  home."  She  spoke  quickly, 
wilfully  exposing  all  her  grievance  against  him,  but  as 
Dickie  was  leaving  the  room,  she  suddenly  flared  out  again. 

"Perhaps  you'd  better  see  Dr.  Price,"  she  said.  "After 
all,  you've  earned  the  right.  You've  helped  us — with 
money." 

As  Dickie  waited  for  his  father  in  the  dining-room, 
he  wondered  what  could  be  done  to  soften  his  sister's 
jealousy,  and  whether  it  might  not  be  better  for  him  to  go 
away  if  his  father  were  likely  to  be  upset  by  Eleanor's  bit- 
terness. But  then,  what  of  his  mother?  She,  too,  had  a 
claim  on  the  comfort  of  his  presence.  "Comfort"  was  her 
own  word,  and  he  knew  that  it  was  apt. 

And  when  his  father  came,  he  made  it  quite  clear  that 
he,  too,  desired  his  boy's  presence  in  the  house  during  the 
next  three  months.  He  evidently  had  something  to  say  that 
he  found  it  difficult  to  approach  and  he  led  up  to  it  by  that 
statement. 

"It  will  be  a  great  relief  to  me  having  you  here,  Dick," 
he  said.  He  leaned  a  little  forward  in  his  chair  and  auto- 
matically passed  his  hands  backwards  and  forwards  over  his 
thin  knees.  He  had  laid  his  still  unlighted  cigarette  on  the 
table,  but  as  he  stared  contemplatively  down  at  the  empty 
grate,  it  seemed  as  if  in  imagination  he  was  still  smoking 
the  little  light  pipe  cut  out  of  a  single  piece  of  myall  wood 
that  he  had  always  affected.  Occasionally  his  lips  moved 
as  if  he  were  blowing  out  smoke. 

"Your  mother  and  I  were  both  so  glad  you  could  come 
for  a  long  holiday,"  he  went  on,  trying  to  approach  that 
difficult  statement  of  his  without  emotion.  "And  there  are 


JULY,  1903  327 

one  or  two  little  business  affairs  I  should  like  to  consult 
you  about.  At  my  age  one  has  to  think  of  these  things.  I 
have  made  you  my  trustee.  You're  better  up  in  business 
matters  than  Edward  or  Latimer." 

'Those  Bank  shares  are  at  a  good  premium  again,"  Dickie 
remarked  in  order  to  fill  the  pause.  He  had  advised  his 
father  to  buy  more  stock  in  the  City  &  County  when  prices 
were  down  at  the  beginning  of  the  Boer  war,  and  had  lent 
him  over  £2,000  for  that  purpose. 

The  Rector  nodded.  "I  have  left  the  interest  on  all  that 
stock  to  your  mother  and  Eleanor  for  life,"  he  said.  "The 
capital  will  revert  to  you,  eventually,  of  course.  .  .  .  It's 
been  a  great  relief  to  me,  Dick,  to  know  that  your  mother 
and  sister  were  provided  for.  .  .  .  And  there  is  quite  a 
little  sum  on  deposit  at  the  Bank  now.  We  have  hardly 
been  living  up  to  our  income  for  the  past  three  years.  I 
should  like  to  give  you  a  cheque  for  £100  for  immediate 
expenses.  .  .  ."  He  was  very  near  the  difficult  topic  now 
and  his  attention  was  riveted  more  firmly  than  ever  on  the 
fireplace.  "It  will  be  a  great  convenience  for  you  to  have 
ready  money  at — at  that  time.  .  .  ." 

"There's  no  need  for  that,"  Dickie  mumbled.  He  was 
embarrassed  by  his  uncertainty  as  to  whether  his  father 
desired  his  illness  to  be  openly  referred  to  between  them. 
"I  shall  open  an  account  with  the  City  &  County  while  I'm 
down  here,  and,  of  course,  I  shall  be  quite  able  to  provide 
for  the  mater  and  Eleanor." 

The  Rector's  hands  paused  for  a  moment  in  their  slow, 
steady  movement  and  he  gripped  them  together  as  he  went 
on,  taking  no  notice  of  his  son's  assurances.  "Price  thinks 
it  will  only  be  a  matter  of  weeks  now.  I  can't  talk  of  these 
things  to  your  mother  and  Eleanor,  but  I  want  you  to 
know."  And  then  he  used  his  phrase  for  the  third  time. 
"It  will  be  a  great  relief  when  it's  all  over,"  he  said  with 
the  ghost  of  a  little  laugh,  and  his  hands  fell  again  to  their 
automatic  rubbing  of  his  thin  knees. 

"I  wish  I  had  been  .  .  ."  Dickie  began  almost  in  a 
whisper,  and  could  find  no  phrase  for  his  regret.  His  father 


328  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

sought  relief  as  his  mother  sought  comfort,  and  relief  could 
only  come  by  way  of  release. 

Moreover,  Dickie  knew  that  the  old  man  had  no  wish 
to  talk  of  his  illness.  He  had  always  had  an  unusual 
delicacy  in  speaking  of  the  functions  of  his  body,  and  now 
he  would  nurse  this  last  disturbance  privately,  secretively ; 
he  would  strive  until  the  end  to  maintain  the  fiction  that  he 
was  suffering  from  no  unusual  interference  with  the  com- 
mon routine  of  physical  life.  The  single  method  by  which 
the  son  could  convey  either  sympathy  or  understanding  was 
by  silence;  his  father  would  appreciate  that.  And,  indeed, 
he  seemed  to  mark  the  quiet  interval,  as  if  he  gave  his  con- 
gregation a  few  moments  of  quiet  prayer  after  the  blessing. 
When  he  spoke  again  his  voice  took  on  a  more  conventional 
tone  and  emphasised  the  change  of  topic.  The  difficult 
announcement  had  been  made  and  that  was  the  end  of  it. 
Dick  understood. 


VIII 

"I  used  to  think  at  one  time  that  you  might  make  a 
figure  in  political  life,"  he  said,  "but  perhaps  it's  better  not. 
A  man  in  a  high  position  must  often  be  compelled  to  act 
against  his  conscience.  I  can  almost  find  it  in  me  to  hope 
now  that  you  won't  be  too  successful." 

"Yes.  If  only  one  could  get  a  clear  direction,"  Dickie 
said. 

"That  will  come,  that  will  come,"  his  father  assured  him, 
and  if  they  thought  of  the  agent  in  different  terms,  their 
intention  gave  them  common  ground.  "Haven't  you  any 
solid  plans  at  present?"  the  Rector  asked. 

"No,  I  haven't.  That  was  why  I  came  down  here," 
Dickie  said.  He  understood  that  his  father  wanted  him  to 
talk,  and  he  made  an  effort  to  satisfy  him.  "Business  life 
is  pretty  beastly  in  some  ways,"  he  went  on,  "and  at  the 
time  one  doesn't  notice  it.  One  is  too  keyed  up.  And  then 
there  are  always  two  sides  to  it,  if  you  look  deep  enough. 


JULY,  1903  329 

You  remember  that  affair  down  here  with  the  Loan  Com- 
pany at  Medborough  ?  Of  course,  you  do.  Well,  that  kind 
of  theory  keeps  cropping  up  all  the  time." 

"Go  on,  my  boy,  go  on,"  the  Rector  prompted  him,  and 
stretched  out  his  hand  and  took  up  the  long  neglected 
cigarette.  Now  that  his  announcement  had  been  received 
without  a  fuss,  he  could  compose  himself  to  listen  to  his 
son's  stories.  Except  for  occasional  fits  of  deep  abstrac- 
tion that  he  seemed  unable  to  guard  against,  the  Rector's 
mind  had  been  unusually  clear  lately. 

"Oh,  it  wasn't  anything  particular,"  Dickie  said.  "Just 
another  thing  very  like  the  Smith  business.  I  am  thinking 
of  a  fellow  called  Jennings,  the  ordinary  type  of  small 
company  promoter,  rather  cock-sure,  and  cunning  in  a  way, 
a  chap  who  was  letting  in  all  sorts  of  small  investors.  And, 
well,  we  pushed  him  up  and  broke  him.  I  took  it  on  at  the 
beginning  chiefly  with  the  idea  that  we  were  doing  rather 
a  good  thing  for  the  small  investor,  generally;  but  it's  true 
that  he  was  in  our  way,  rather." 

"Scoundrel !"  commented  the  Rector  softly.  He  had  had 
experience  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  small  investor. 
Crockford's  information  supplies  an  excellent  register  for 
the  forwarding  of  prospectuses. 

"Yes,  he  was,  of  course,"  Dickie  admitted,  "but  I  found 
that  he  had  about  ten  people  dependent  on  him.  He  came 
to  me  and  pitched  no  end  of  a  story  and  I  went  up  to  his 
house  at  Highbury  one  night  and  found  that  it  was  perfectly 
true.  He  had  a  wife  and  five  children  and  a  mother  and 
two  sisters,  and  was  being  jolly  decent  to  them  all." 

The  Rector  looked  up  sympathetically  and  clicked  his 
tongue.  "What  did  you  do,  Dick?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  I  put  it  to  Jennings  next  day  that  he'd  broken 
up  a  few  jolly  little  homes  like  his  own  at  one  time  and 
another,  and  he  argued  it  out  a  bit  at  first,  and  then  gave 
in  and  said  he  had  never  thought  of  it  like  that  before  and 
that  it  would  be  a  lesson  to  him  and  all  that  kind  of  stuff; 
and  I  gave  him  a  credit  and  let  him  in  on  a  good  thing, 


330  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

and  six  months  afterwards  he  was  back  at  his  old  game 
again." 

"Dear,  dear,  what  became  of  him  ?"  asked  the  Rector. 

"He  went  a  bit  too  near  the  bone,  and  had  to  clear  out," 
Dickie  said.  "His  family  just  manage  to  keep  things  going. 
Lessing  has  been  very  decent  to  them.  He's  like  that.  But 
the  point  is,  you  see,  pater,  that  you  can't  help  these  things. 
It's  all  very  well  to  say  that  you  can  choose  some  business 
in  which  you  are  doing  as  little  harm  as  possible  to  any- 
body else,  but  that's  only  shirking  the  responsibility.  Chaps 
like  Jennings  go  on  downing  somebody  or  being  downed 
themselves  just  the  same,  and  you  might  just  as  well  be 
doing  it  yourself  for  all  the  good  you  are." 

The  Rector  threw  away  the  last  third  of  his  cigarette 
and  stared  thoughtfully  into  the  empty  grate.  His  hands 
were  still  now,  clasped  together  between  his  knees. 

"You'll  find  a  way,  Dick,"  he  remarked  after  a  long 
pause. 

"It's  only  the  personal  problem  I  want  to  solve,  you 
know,"  Dickie  explained,  following  out  his  own  line  of 
thought.  "I've  no  use  for  the  high-falutin'  reform  business. 
It's  all  right  if  you  think  you've  got  a  mission,  of  course ; 
but  I  know  I  haven't."  He  ruffled  his  hair  with  his  old 
boyish  gesture  as  he  concluded :  "I  just  want  to  find  my 
line,  whatever  it  may  be.  I'm  not  sure  my  old  idea  of  be- 
ing an  astronomer  wasn't  as  good  as  anything.  Gives  one 
a  chance  of  just  plugging  away.  .  .  ." 

"You'll  find  your  line,"  his  father  repeated  softly,  and 
had  a  vision  of  his  old  dreams,  a  little  changed. 

"You're  going  over  there  to-morrow?"  he  said. 

"To  Oakstone?  Yes,"  Dickie  answered.  "I  thought  I 
should  like  to  go  into  Medborough  to  see  Price  first,  if  you 
don't  mind." 

"Did  Eleanor  ask  you  to  do  that  ?"  his  father  asked,  look- 
ing up  quickly. 

"On  the  contrary,  she  asked  me  not  to." 

"It  will  serve  no  purpose,"  the  Rector  said  with  some- 
thing of  his  old  irritation.  "I  had  gastric  fever  when  I  was 


JULY,  1903  331 

in  my  first  curacy;  I've  always  thought  it  might  return  in 
some  form  or  another." 

"It  was  only  for  my  own  satisfaction,"  Dickie  explained. 

The  Rector  got  to  his  feet  with  an  obvious  effort.  "Well, 
well,"  he  said,  "you  must  do  as  you  think  best.  Now,  my 
boy,  are  you  going  upstairs?" 

Dickie  wondered  if  it  were  possible  that  his  father  did 
not  know  what  was  the  cause  of  the  trouble.  If  he  believed 
that  his  affection  was  gastric  and  not  due  to  a  malignant 
growth,  it  seemed  better  to  allow  him  to  continue  in  igno- 
rance. There  was  something  less  evil,  less  threatening  in 
the  idea  of  that  old  illness  returned  in  another  form. 


IX 

And  Dr.  Price  was  a  trifle  vague  in  his  diagnosis  when 
questioned  by  Dickie  the  next  morning. 

"It  isn't  absolutely  certain,"  Price  said,  "that  it's  a  case 
of  cancer.  We  recognise  a  malignant  stricture  of  the 
oesophagus  not  due  to  the  pressure  of  an  outside  growth, 
and  yet  not  susceptible  to  enlargement  by  a  bougie." 

"In  that  case  he  might  be  kept  alive  for  years,  possibly, 
by  artificial  feeding?"  suggested  Dickie. 

"I  suggested  gastrotomy  to  your  father  when  he  saw 
me,"  Price  returned,  "but  he  absolutely  refused  to  consider 
the  idea  of  an  operation.  And  in  any  case  it  would  be  of 
doubtful  value.  He  is  seventy-six,  I  believe." 

"Nearly,"  Dickie  agreed. 

"By  the  way,"  he  added,  "does  my  father  know  your 
diagnosis?  Last  night  he  spoke  of  gastric  trouble." 

"The  malignant  stricture  I  mentioned  might  quite  well 
be  the  consequence  of  an  old  ulceration  due  to  some  form 
of  gastritis,"  Price  said. 

"On  the  other  hand,  it  may  be  cancer  ?" 

"I  think  it  more  probable." 

"But  you  didn't  tell  him  that?" 

"No,  I  believe  not,"  Dr.  Price  said. 


332  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

Dickie  went  on  to  Oakstone,  feeling  a  little  relieved. 
The  fiction  of  the  old  gastric  trouble  had  some  foundation 
after  all  and  it  seemed  curiously  a  more  amenable  thing 
than  that  other  horrible  enemy. 


XIV 

THE  NEW  OAKSTONE 


THE  change  in  Oakstone  was  so  far  reaching  that  the 
influence  of  it  was  visible  at  the  North  Western  sta- 
tion at  Medborough,  fifteen  miles  away.  The  "Oakstone" 
train  was  being  advertised  by  flurried  porters  to  the  complete 
neglect  of  Peterborough  which  was  the  train's  important 
destination.  It  was  true  that  Dickie,  who  had  not  revisited 
the  school  since  he  had  left  it  eleven  years  before,  had  never 
seen  that  side  of  speech-day  which  began  at  Medborough ; 
but  he  knew  that  this  crowd  on  the  platform  was  greater 
than  any  he  had  seen  collected  in  the  Oakstone  schoolroom ; 
and  these  people  only  represented  the  London  contingent  who 
had  come  across  from  the  Great  Northern  station, — a  group 
slightly  inflated,  perhaps,  by  the  fathers,  mothers  and  sis- 
ters of  Medborough  itself.  And  not  only  was  the  crowd 
greater  than  it  used  to  be,  it  was  also  of  a  different  quality. 
The  parents  seemed  to  average  a  higher  level  of  impor- 
tance than  those  Dickie  remembered.  He  recognised  Evan 
Williams,  who  was  sure  of  a  seat  in  the  Cabinet  when  the 
Liberals  came  into  power,  and  A.  B.  Ellis,  the  novelist,  both 
public  men  and  both  associated  with  that  inclination  to- 
wards new  ideas  and  standards  which  was  just  beginning 
to  discover  a  definite  outline.  Ellis,  particularly,  was  al- 
ways being  bracketed  with  Bernard  Shaw  and  H.  G.  Wells 
as  an  exponent  of  what  was  presently  to  become  a  new  lit- 
erature. In  the  old  days  the  quality  of  the  speech-day 
visitors  had  been  recognisably  conservative. 

Dickie  had  heard  something  of  Moseley's  drastic  changes 

333 


334  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

during  the  eight  years  of  his  head-mastership,  but  the  in- 
formation had  always  been  given  disparagingly,  with  a  hint 
of  regret  that  the  good  old  tradition  of  the  school  should  be 
sacrificed.  Behind  any  report  of  increasing  numbers  and 
the  development  of  the  "Modern"  side,  had  lingered  the 
suggestion  that  Oakstone  was  losing  "tone."  Edward  had 
said  as  much  explicitly  the  last  time  Dickie  had  seen 
him,  some  three  years  ago. 

"I  don't  go  there  now/'  Edward  had  added.  "It  isn't  the 
same  school  since  Moseley  has  been  there.  He's  modernis- 
ing the  whole  place — science  laboratories  and  workships 
and  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know." 

Dickie  had  exhibited  a  fleeting  interest  at  the  time,  and 
then  had  forgotten  all  about  it,  until  he  had  evolved  out 
of  his  own  experience  the  ghost  of  a  scheme  for  a  new 
method  in  education.  When  that  scheme  occurred  to  him, 
he  remembered  that  "something  was  being  done"  at  Oak- 
stone. 

Even  on  the  Medborough  platform  he  had  a  glimpse  of 
the  radical  quality  of  Moseley's  changes.  .  .  . 

What  that  change  stood  for,  he  found  it  difficult  to  say 
with  any  precision  while  he  was  in  the  midst  of  all  the 
new  circumstance  that  surrounded  the  school.  For  every- 
thing about  the  place  had  been  affected,  even  the  station,  a 
mile  out  of  the  town,  had  become  more  alert.  The  two  large 
waggonettes  and  the  other  conveyances  that  had  come  to 
meet  the  train  were  new, — in  the  old  days  one  omnibus  and 
a  few  dilapidated  "flies"  were  all  that  the  town  could 
inadequately  provide  for  the  visitors,  the  majority  of  whom 
trailed  in  a  thin  procession  over  that  dull  mile  of  untidy, 
partly  urbanised  road  into  Oakstone. 

And  the  town  itself  was  evidently  on  the  way  to  regener- 
ation. Once  it  had  hidden  the  school  under  its  skirts  as  an 
offspring  of  which  it  was  a  little  ashamed.  Now  the  child 
was  nearly  full-grown  and  the  mother  leaned  upon  it.  The 
old  town  had  come  to  exist  for  the  sake  of  the  school,  to 
thrive  upon  it,  and  after  all  the  centuries  of  its  own  slow 
existence,  to  grow.  On  the  hill  were  new  spaces  round 


THE  NEW  OAKSTONE  335 

the  school-buildings,  and  the  new  schoolhouse,  and  the  new 
range  of  laboratories  and  workships  that  had  formerly  been 
the  old  schoolhouse.  Up  there  was  a  nucleus  that  had  once 
been  an  unconsidered  extension;  and  on  the  farther  side 
of  the  nucleus  was  the  rest  of  the  school,  recently  built,  or 
building,  collecting  the  other  "houses"  that  in  Dickie's  day 
had  been  hidden  away,  dingy  and  inconvenient,  in  various 
parts  of  the  town;  surrounded  now  by  playing  fields  that 
he  had  known  as  market  gardens  or  pasturage. 

So  much  alteration  might  have  implied  almost  miraculous 
powers  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Moseley,  if  his  appointment 
had  not  been  made  a  few  months  after  the  death  of  old 
Lord  Bingley,  the  chairman  of  the  trustees.  That  change 
in  the  over-lordship  of  the  funds  had  revealed  the  fact 
of  a  large  surplus  of  wealth,  theoretically  announced  in 
detail  from  year  to  year,  but  actually  concealed  by  the  mere 
prestige  attaching  to  the  Earl's  name.  The  nephew  who 
succeeded  was  a  man  of  affairs,  and  if  Moseley  had  not 
been  full  of  energy  and  initiative  the  whole  reserve  of 
funds  would  probably  have  fallen  into  the  ever-open  maw 
of  the  Charity  Commissioners.  The  old  board  of  trustees 
had  displayed  an  amazing  ignorance  of  their  accounts  and 
would  have  been  quite  willing  to  hand  them  over  to  the 
larger  authority.  They  had  trusted  implicitly  to  Lord 
Bingley,  who  had  trusted  his  solicitor,  who  simply  had  not 
bothered.  And  it  had  been  nobody's  business  to  investi- 
gate. But  there  was  the  money  to  be  spent  on  the  School, 
and  Moseley  was  the  right  man  to  direct  the  spending.  He 
had  found  a  capable  lieutenant  in  young  Lord  Bingley. 

Yet  in  Oakstone,  as  in  Paris,  London  and  Halton,  Dickie 
found  still  the  old  note  of  protest  against  the  too  rapid 
insurgence  of  all  this  young  growth.  The  sixteenth  century 
town  hall  stood  unaltered,  an  island  memorial  of  the  past 
among  the  rebuilding  shops  of  the  market-place.  And  the 
long,  thin  neck  of  the  over-crocketted  church  spire  seemed 
to  strain  a  little  impatiently  upward  in  order  to  claim  atten- 
tion *os  \ts  age  and  influence  among  all  this  bright,  clean 
spread  of  modern  architecture.  (A.  B.  Ellis,  who  was 


336  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

fond  of  a  whimsical  touch  in  his  metaphor,  had  likened 
the  spire  to  the  neck  of  a  giraffe  in  a  pen.  "The  boast 
of  these  prehistoric  survivals,"  he  had  added  reflectively, 
"has  a  curious  attraction.  We  must  keep  a  few  of  them 
to  remind  us  of  what  we  once  were.") 


ii 

The  marks  of  the  change  were  not  so  clearly  defined  in 
the  big  hall  that  on  such  occasions  as  these  was  contrived 
from  the  two  junior  class-rooms.  The  school-buildings  were 
not  quite  recent  in  date.  They  marked  a  transition  period 
that  had  promised  reform  and  failed  to  accomplish  it,  in 
the  days  immediately  preceding  the  appointment  of  Dr. 
Barnard.  There  had  been  a  movement,  then;  but  so  far 
as  Oakstone  was  concerned,  the  movement  had  only  been 
an  uneasy  rocking  that  had  gradually  tottered  to  rest  on 
the  old  base. 

The  influence  of  the  town  hall  and  the  church  was  still 
visible  in  the  Oakstone  scheme  of  education.  Moseley 
might  have  ambitions  and  might  be  working  steadily  to 
express  them,  but  he  was  wise  enough  to  move  slowly, 
clear-headed  enough  not  to  run  too  far  ahead  of  his 
generation.  He  had  either  to  consider  the  necessity  for 
compromise,  or  risk  the  loss  of  his  material.  In  that 
generation,  his  most  difficult  task  was  to  educate  the  parents 
of  his  boys. 

An  example  of  his  method  might  be  found  in  the  fact 
that  the  Greek  play  was  still  an  item  on  the  speech-day 
programme.  The  sixth  did  a  scene  from  Aristophanes 
instead  of  from  ^Eschylus,  and  the  performance  was  cut 
down  from  half-an-hour  to  ten  minutes.  But  all  the  donnish 
and  clerical  fathers,  and  they  were  a  distinguishable  ele- 
ment in  the  crowd,  were  appeased  by  this  salute  to  tradi- 
tion. They  could  defend  themselves  against  the  criticism 
of  friends  who  scoffed  at  the  "new-fangled"  ideas  of  Oak- 
stone,  by  instancing  that  Greek  play,  even  though  it  were 


THE  NEW  OAKSTONE  337 

as  remote  from  its  surroundings  as  the  old  town  hall 
among  the  recent  litter  of  the  market-place. 

As  Dickie  walked  into  the  familiar  rooms  that  had  been 
the  scene  of  his  earlier  struggles  with  the  Latin  primer, 
some  one  came  up  behind  him  and  touched  his  arm. 

"Young  Mr.  Lynneker,  isn't  it?"  a  voice  asked,  and 
Dickie  turned  to  discover  Mr.  Bailey,  retired  ironmonger 
and  ex-mayor  of  Medborough.  He  still  wore  a  flat-crowned 
felt  hat  of  the  same  pattern  that  Dickie  distinctly  associated 
with  that  first  morning  of  his  clerkship.  Mr.  Bailey  had 
put  him  in  his  place,  on  that  occasion. 

"Come  to  have  a  look  at  the  old  school,  eh  ?"  Bailey  asked 
when  they  had  shaken  hands.  "Altered  a  bit  since  your 
day,  ain't  it?  Well,  where  you  goin'  to  sit?  I'm  all  alone. 
You  heard,  no  doubt,  as  my  wife  died  six  years  back? 

"My  boy's  here,  now.  Won  a  prize  for  mechanics," 
he  continued  when  they  had  found  places.  "Got  a  taste 
for  engineering  playin'  with  the  tools  in  my  old  shop.  I 
sold  the  business  in  '98.  Ah !  yes,  you  hadn't  left  home 
then.  Claude,  you  remember  him,  perhaps"  (Dickie  re- 
membered him  as  a  stringy  boy  of  eleven  or  twelve  with 
outstanding  pink  ears,  but  did  not  particularise  this  mental 
vision),  "well,  he  didn't  get  on  at  the  Kings  School.  From 
the  Reverend  Hammond's  reports  of  him,  you  might 
a-thought  the  boy  was  little  better  nor  an  idiot.  And 
Claude,  he  was  crazy  to  go  into  the  railway  shops,  but  I 
meant  him  to  have  a  proper  education,  somehow.  I'd  made 
a  bit  of  money,  and  I  meant  as  he  should  profit  by  it  .  .  ." 

The  Hall  was  filling  rapidly  and  Dickie,  bending  an 
apparently  attentive  ear  to  the  ironmonger's  story,  allowed 
his  interest  to  wander  while  the  complicated  narrative  of 
Mr.  Bailey's  introduction  to  Oakstone  was  unfolded. 

"He's  done  first-rate  here,"  Mr.  Bailey  concluded  rather 
abruptly,  and  lowering  his  voice  as  Mr.  Moseley  stood  up 
at  the  front  of  the  dais.  "Prize  for  mechanics,"  he  whis- 
pered penetratingly  through  the  hush  that  announced  the 
opening  speech. 

vSplendid,"  Dickie  murmured. 


338  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

The  programme  of  the  prize-giving  did  not  differ  greatly 
from  those  he  remembered,  but  the  performance  had  been 
sharpened  up.  If  a  boy  had  won  more  than  one  prize,  he 
took  them  all  at  once — if  he  could  carry  them — and  was  not 
dragged  up  half-a-dozen  separate  times.  And  when  he 
considered  it,  Dickie  saw  that  even  this  abbreviation  of 
the  tedious  proceedings  had  a  secondary  intention.  The 
boy,  and  not  the  subject,  was  the  principal  consideration. 
It  was  no  longer  "sixth-form  prize,  Collins  primus";  and 
later  Dr.  Barnard  with  a  whimsical  twist  of  his  mouth  say- 
ing, "Latin  verse  prize;  I'm  afraid  we  must  trouble  the 
inimitable  Collins  primus  once  more" ;  but  Mr.  Moseley, 
brief  and  sharp,  "Collins  primus  takes  .  .  ."  and  then 
the  tale  of  his  achievement,  and  Collins  was  placed  and 
finished  with.  There  was  some  recognisable  order  of 
precedence  from  the  sixth  downwards,  an  order  not  of  sub- 
jects but  of  scholars;  and  incidentally  it  was  to  be  ob- 
served that  the  order  was  known  to  the  prize-winners 
themselves.  Each  appeared  from  the  immediate  proximity 
of  the  dais  when  his  name  was  called,  and  descended  on 
the  other  side,  free,  then,  to  join  his  people  and  watch  the 
further  proceedings  without  interruption.  Moseley  cer- 
tainly had  a  talent  for  organisation.  The  actual  perform- 
ance of  the  ceremony  for  a  school  of  nearly  300  boys  took 
little  more  than  half  the  time  occupied  in  Barnard's  day 
for  a  school  of  170. 

After  Claude  Bailey  with  his  peaked,  listening  face  and 
obtrusively  articulated  limbs  had  passed  attentively  across 
the  platform,  and  the  third  edition  of  Clerk  Maxwell's 
"Treatise  on  Electricity  and  Magnetism"  had  been  de- 
posited with  his  father,  Dickie  was  able  to  obtain  a  little 
more  generalised  information  from  the  hitherto  absorbed 
ironmonger.  Claude  had  retired  once  more  into  some  ob- 
scurity of  boys,  but  Mr.  Bailey  had  a  few  shrewd  remarks 
to  make  about  Oakstone  as  a  school. 

"What  I  can  make  of  it,"  was  his  summary,  "is  that  Mr. 
Moseley  don't  believe  in  packing  all  boys  with  the  same 
stuffing.  Claude,  now,  was  no  good  at  history  and  geog- 


THE  NEW  OAKSTONE  339 

raphy  and  that  kind  o'  thing,  but  he's  got  a  taste  for  mucking 
about  with  tools  and  somehow  Mr.  Moseley  has  worked 
on  that,  and  Claude  has  picked  up  his  figuring  and  a  lot 
of  other  things  incidental,  as  it  were.  He  never  cared  for 
French  and  German,  for  instance,  till  he  found  as  there 
was  books  about  electricity  in  them  languages  as  he'd  got 
to  read  if  he  was  to  get  on.  All  seems  to  work  together 
with  Claude,  you  see ;  he  don't  mind  what  trouble  he  takes 
so  long  as  it's  got  something  to  do  with  engines." 

"Specialising,"  commented  Dickie. 

"And  a  good  thing,  too,  in  these  days,"  Mr.  Bailey  re- 
plied. "You  can't  begin  too  early,  with  all  this  competi- 
tion." 

"But  there  must  be  a  large  proportion  of  boys  who 
haven't  any  particular  bent  at  this  age,"  Dickie  objected. 

"Oh!  like  enough,"  Mr.  Bailey  said,  obviously  thank- 
ful that  Claude  was  not  of  their  number. 

Dickie  wondered  whether  Moseley  would  have  made  him 
an  astronomer.  It  seemed  to  him  that  that  occupation, 
too,  might  lead  in  these  days  to  an  intense  specialisation. 
In  the  twentieth  century  one  discovered,  not  new  planets, 
but  some  delicate  improvement  in,  say,  the  spectrohelio- 
graph. 

He  sighed  and  turned  his  attention  to  the  dais.  Ellis 
and  Evan  Williams  were  up  there,  and  the  Conservative 
member  who  had  succeeded  to  Medborough  when  Lord  Wil- 
liam March  had  unexpectedly  come  into  the  peerage;  and 
other  evidently  distinguished  people  who  were  unknown 
to  Dickie. 

"Who  is  the  woman  in  grey?"  he  asked  his  companion. 

"Lady  Constance,  the  Bishop's  wife,"  Mr.  Bailey  said; 
"the  young  lady  with  her  is  Miss  Sibyl  Groome,  her  niece, 
you  know,  the  daughter  of  the  Honourable  Philip  Groome, 
Lady  Constance's  brother.  He's  an  invalid,  smashed  up 
hunting,  they  say,  and  goes  about  in  a  bath-chair,  mostly. 
They're  stayin'  at  the  Palace." 

Mr.   Bailey  displayed   a  proper  pride  in   the  accuracy 


840  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

of  his  information,  and  picked  out  a  few  more  local  celebri- 
ties for  the  purposes  of  biography. 

Dickie  was  looking  round  for  a  way  of  escape  from  the 
further  proliferations  of  the  ceremony.  He  was  tired  of 
this  indirect  method.  He  wanted  to  talk  to  Moseley.  Un- 
fortunately Mr.  Bailey  had  tucked  them  into  the  middle 
of  a  row.  For  a  time  he  amused  himself  with  a  speculation 
as  to  whether  the  neat-faced,  blonde  little  man  sitting  near 
Lady  Constance  could  be  the  admirable  Hudson  who  was 
so  well-informed  on  the  subject  of  Daedalus,  and  had  been, 
according  to  report,  the  cleverest  boy  that  Oakstone,  under 
Barnard,  had  ever  turned  out.  Dickie  decided  that  it 
must  be  Hudson,  and  determined  to  accost  him  later  and 
ask  what  fame  his  cleverness  had  won  for  him. 

His  eye  dwelt  for  a  moment  with  a  touch  of  shy  hesi- 
tation on  the  figure  of  Lady  Constance's  niece.  Her  face 
seemed  vaguely  familiar  to  him. 


in 

Mr.  Bailey  announced  that  he  was  not  going  to  the  Head- 
master's for  lunch,  but  meant  to  take  Claude  to  "The  Lamb" 
and  reward  his  industry  by  a  substantial  feed ;  and  Dickie, 
having  seen  his  late  companion  make  his  diligent  way  out 
of  the  Hall  with  a  volume  of  Clerk  Maxwell  under  each 
arm,  sauntered  up  to  the  dais  just  in  time  to  catch  "young 
Hudson" — the  old  habit  of  address  was  suppressed  just 
in  time. 

Hudson,  it  appeared,  was  still  being  brilliant.  Dickie's 
direct  questions  elicited  the  facts  that  he  had  been  "lucky 
enough"  to  get  a  fellowship  at  Balliol,  and  "was  doing  a 
new  translation  of  Plotinus."  Dickie  inferred  that  at 
twenty-six  Hudson  could  regard  his  future  with  com- 
fortable assurance.  The  large  possibilities  of  Oxford  held 
no  dignity  or  emolument  to  which  he  might  not  aspire. 

"What  do  you  think  of  Moseley?"  Dickie  asked,  when 
he  had  satisfied  his  curiosity  under  the  first  head. 


THE  NEW  OAKSTONE  341 

"You  would  hardly  expect  me  to  be  very  appreciative," 
Hudson  said  with  the  neat  smile,  which  so  well  expressed 
the  precision  of  his  well-informed  mind.  "You  have  fol- 
lowed the  line  of  this  development,  no  doubt." 

"No,  I  can't  say  that  I  have,"  Dickie  admitted.  "What 
is  it?" 

"Speaking  broadly,"  Hudson  indicated  the  emptying 
school-rooms  with  a  white,  slender  hand,  "this  is  an  at- 
tempt to  compete  with  the  secondary,  technical  education  of 
the  Council  schools.  Once  the  principle  of  free  education 
was  firmly  established,  technical  education  was  certain  to 
follow.  You  remember  what  Fitch  said,  that  the  'habit  of 
the  English  people  regards  education  as  a  body  of  ex- 
pedients to  be  discovered  empirically' ;  well,  our  experiments 
landed  us  in  the  position  of  having  to  compete  with  the 
boys  from  the  National  Schools,  particularly  in  such  pro- 
fessions as  engineering  in  its  various  branches.  Hunc  illae 
machinae!"  He  gave  his  neat  smile  again  to  point  the 
mild  jest.  "You  see,  my  dear  Lynneker,"  he  continued, 
"the  new  Oakstone  is  nothing  more  nor  less  than  an  attempt 
at  democratisation.  It  means  that  the  ruling  classes  are 
taking  off  their  coats  and  trying  to  compete  with  the  me- 
chanic— an  attempt  which  I  believe  is  foredoomed  to 
failure." 

"I  think  you're  speaking  too  broadly,  Hudson,"  Dickie 
said,  shaking  his  head. 

"We  were  discussing  the  line  of  development,"  Hudson 
reminded  him. 

"Even  so,"  Dickie  returned,  "you've  missed  what  seems 
to  me  an  essential — I  mean  the  special  education  of  boys 
who  have  a  particular  bent.  The  old  Oakstone  was  all 
right  for  you ;  it  was  all  wrong  for  me.  And  why  shouldn't 
I  and  my  sort  have  the  chance  that  Moseley's  got  to 
offer  us?" 

Hudson  waived  that  aside.  "You  can't  pick  out  a  par- 
ticular application  like  that  and  consider  it  apart  from  the 
development  as  a  whole,"  he  said.  "Any  small  advantage 


THESE  LYNNEKERS 

such  as  the  one  you  instance  can't  be  weighed  in  against 
the  whole  argument." 

Dickie  fumbled  for  an  adequate  reply  and  found  none. 
He  had  realised  that  he  would  get  nothing  but  dialectic 
from  Hudson, — dialectic  influenced  by  a  point  of  view  that, 
having  once  been  stated,  must  and  would  be  upheld  by 
the  logical  and  verbal  ingenuities  of  which  this  youthful 
don  was  already  a  master. 

"You're  too  good  for  me  at  debate,  always  were,"  Dickie 
said,  rather  ruefully.  "I'll  give  in."  He  seached  his  mind 
for  a  subject  of  escape  and  some  association  prompted  him 
to  ask  if  Hudson  knew  what  had  become  of  Nigger  Joyce, 
the  doyen  of  the  Remove. 

Hudson's  neat  smile  was  faintly  supercilious  as  he  said, 
"Haven't  you  heard  of  Herbert  Joyce,  the  new  romantic 
novelist?  He's  to  be  a  'power  in  literature'  pace  the  re- 
viewers." 

"Good  Lord!  Is  that  chap  old  Nigger?"  exclaimed 
Dickie. 

"Another  Dumas,  perhaps,"  Hudson  suggested. 

"And  we  used  to  think  that  he  was  practically  an  idiot," 
commented  Dickie.  "I  wonder  what  Moseley  would  have 
made  of  him?" 

"An  engineer,  probably,"  sneered  Hudson. 


IV 

Dickie  appropriated  the  seat  of  a  defaulting  Countess 
at  lunch. 

"I'm  not  Lady  Cardwell,"  he  explained,  as  he  sat  down 
next  to  A.  B.  Ellis.  "She  isn't  here,  I  find,  and  I  wanted 
to  hear  what  you  had  to  say  about  the  new  Oakstone." 

"You  remember  it  as  it  was?"  Ellis  asked  with  a  keen, 
rather  suspicious  look,  as  if  he  feared  a  reporter. 

"Rather,"  Dickie  said.     "I  was  here  under  Barnard." 

"Quite  a  different  place,  then?" 

"Just  the  old  model,  you  know.    Very  compulsory  Greek 


THE  NEW  OAKSTONE  343 

and  Latin,  well  rammed  down  with  a  wad  to  keep  'em 
tight." 

"What  did  you  do  when  you  left?" 

"Bank  first,  and  then  an  office  in  the  City." 

"Didn't  find  your  education  much  use,  there,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

"None  whatever.     But  I  want  to  know  what  you  .  .  ." 

Apparently  Ellis,  also,  preferred  to  ask  questions.  "All 
in  good  time,"  he  said.  "We've  a  prolonged  luncheon  be- 
fore us.  What  kind  of  office  in  the  City  did  you  go  to 
from  your  Bank  ?" 

But  Dickie,  if  he  were  willing  enough  to  mention  his  em- 
ployer to  such  acquaintances  as  Dr.  Olivier,  reserved  that 
information  on  general  occasions.  He  had  found  that 
Lessing's  name  always  provoked  a  particular  heightening 
of  interest  in  himself,  interest  of  a  kind  that  he  had,  in 
his  own  phrase,  "no  sort  of  use  for." 

"Financial  agent,"  he  said,  shortly. 

"Oh!  all  right,"  Ellis  returned.  "You  sat  down  with 
the  declared  intention  of  pumping  me." 

"Not  about  your  private  affairs,"  Dickie  submitted. 

"I  haven't  any,"  Ellis  said.  "But  I  usually  keep  my 
opinions  to  myself  until  they're  ready  for  copyrighting." 

"I  hadn't  guessed  that  you  were  quite  so  professional," 
was  Dickie's  comment. 

Ellis  smiled  and  rubbed  the  back  of  his  head  with  a 
suggestion  of  boyish  glee. 

"Look  here,  Barnard  taught  you  something,"  he  said. 
"Or  was  it  your  financial  agent?" 

"I  should  like  to  hear  what  you  think  of  this  method 
of  Moseley's,"  retaliated  Dickie. 

"My  dear  chap,"  Ellis  returned,  putting  a  hand  on  Dickie's 
arm,  "you'll  find  it  all  in  my  book,  'The  Young  Idea.' 
Really,  you  know,  you  mustn't  expect  an  author  to  repeat 
himself.  If  you'll  give  me  your  name,  I'll  send  you  a  copy 
of  the  book  when  I  get  back.  I've  nothing  to  add  to  it  in 
connexion  with  to-day's  ceremony,  except  the  fact  that 
I'm  sending  my  eldest  boy  to  Moseley  next  term."  He 


344  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

paused  a  moment  and  added  thoughtfully,  "It  is,  at  least, 
a  beginning." 

"I  certainly  am  rather  an  ass,"  admitted  Dickie,  as  he 
took  a  card  from  his  pocket  book  and  scribbled  the  address 
of  the  Rectory  under  his  name. 

The  visitors'  lunch  was  being  served  in  the  boys'  dining- 
room  at  the  School  House,  and  as  Ellis  took  the  card  he 
glanced  up  at  the  school  "boards"  over  the  mantel-piece. 

"I  see  Lynneker  E.  H.  and  Lynneker  L.  A.,  he  com- 
mented. 

"I  don't  appear  on  the  Honours  List,"  Dickie  said.  "The 
other  two  are  my  elder  brothers." 

"And  they  .  .  ."  Ellis  prompted  him. 

"Both  in  the  church." 

"You  the  only  black  sheep?" 

Dickie's  shrug  of  the  shoulders  might  have  been  in- 
terpreted as  disclaiming  so  much  distinction. 

"Nevertheless  a  little  discoloured,  theologically?"  Ellis 
suggested. 

For  a  time  they  talked  discursively.  Ellis  was  an  imagi- 
native thinker  with  a  natural  gift  for  phrase  (a  sufficient 
explanation  of  his  success  as  a  novelist),  and  he  had  a  way 
of  throwing  the  subjects  he  discussed  into  an  illumination 
that  seemed  at  the  moment  definite  and  final.  Dickie,  fol- 
lowing a  pace  behind,  was  interested  and  impressed.  He 
had  not,  hitherto,  met  any  one  so  articulate  and  so  pre- 
pared. And  yet,  even  before  the  lunch  was  finished,  he 
found  himself  being  repelled  as  strongly  as  he  was  at- 
tracted. 

Ellis  had  suddenly  dropped  his  voice  to  the  intimation 
of  a  near  confidence. 

"D'you  know  who  that  girl  is?"  he  asked.  "At  the 
next  table;  in  white;  with  an  eloquent  hat.  She  was  on 
the  platform  at  the  prize-giving." 

"I  was  told  that  she  was  a  niece  of  the  Bishop's  wife," 
Dickie-  replied.  He  was  conscious  of  a  queer  resentment 
as  if  he  were  again  being  impudently  questioned  about  his 
private  affairs. 


THE  NEW  OAKSTONE  345 

Ellis  was  twirling  the  stem  of  a  wine-glass.  "Let  me 
see,  she'd  be  Philip  Groome's  daughter,  then,  wouldn't  she  ?" 
he  said.  'There  were  only  three  Groomes  in  that  genera- 
tion ;  the  present  Lord  Wansford,  and  Lady  Constance  and 
Philip;  and  Wansford,  I  know,  hasn't  any  daughters." 

"Very  likely,"  Dickie  said  curtly.  "A  Medborough  man 
who  was  sitting  next  to  me  just  now  told  me  that  she  was 
Lady  Constance's  niece.  That's  all  I  know." 

Ellis  glanced  at  the  woman  sitting  at. his  left  hand,  and 
then  leaned  towards  Dickie. 

"Very  attractive,  that  suggestion  of  ripe  innocence ;  don't 
you  think?"  Ellis  said.  "That  girl's  quite  unusually  pretty, 
of  course,  but  it's  that  look  of  poise,  of  hesitation  on  an 
edge,  that's  so  fascinating.  Much  more  attractive  to  me, 
for  instance,  than  Gautier's  Mile,  de  Maupin  with  her 
rakish  mind  and  innocent  body.  That  girl's  body,  now,  is 
in  effect,  mature  with  the  natural  instincts  she  has  inherited 
from  uncountable  ancestors;  while  her  mind  is  ready  to 
receive  the  impression  that  any  man  cares  to  put  upon  it." 

Dickie  found  that  his  face  was  burning  with  furious 
indignation.  There  had  been  something  in  Ellis's  expres- 
sion and  tone  that  had  discovered  the  naked  lust  of  his 
thought.  And  to  Dickie,  it  was  as  if  all  his  own  inhibited 
thoughts  and  desires  had  suddenly  burst  their  long  re- 
straint. In  the  past  five  years  he  had  mixed  with  men 
who  habitually  found  their  humour  in  the  indecent,  and 
when  their  jokes  had  had  their  origin  in  genuine  wit,  he 
had  laughed  with  the  crowd  and  without  shamefacedness. 
He  had  recognised  the  part  sexuality  played  in  the  life  of 
men  without  criticism  and  without  applying  any  test  to 
his  own  feelings.  In  his  waking  hours  he  never  dwelt  on 
the  dreams  that  emanated  from  the  secret  hiding  places 
of  his  inhibited  desires.  He  had  always  found  an  outlet 
in  mental  application,  in  all  kinds  of  work  and  in  his 
splendid  capacities  for  physical  exertion.  In  London  his 
single  panacea  for  what  he  called  "stuffiness"  had  been  the 
gymnasium. 

But  now,  some  black  magic  of  Ellis's  personality  had 


346  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

suddenly  released  all  those  suppressed  images  to  dance 
about  Dickie's  brain,  distorted  and  crippled  by  their  long 
confinement.  And  all  their  obscene  contortions  were  re- 
flected, as  it  seemed  to  him,  in  the  person  of  the  brilliant 
novelist  who  had  so  unexpectedly  called  them  forth.  Dickie 
felt  as  if  his  most  sacred  thought  had  been  brutally  out- 
raged. 

"I  loathe  that  kind  of  muck,"  he  said,  quite  distinctly. 

Ellis  flushed  slightly  and  then  pursed  his  mouth  into  a 
whistle. 

"Oh!  shucks!"  he  remarked  to  the  spaces  across  the 
table. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  I  didn't  quite  catch  .  .  ."  said  the 
bland  voice  of  young  Canon  Lister,  who  was  sitting  imme- 
diately opposite;  and  who,  now,  leaned  forward  with  an 
expression  of  the  most  intelligent  interest. 

"I  used  an  American  expression,  sir,"  Ellis  explained, 
"to  convey  a  sense  of  ingenuous  amazement.  It  is  the  kind 
of  word  one  uses  when  one  has  been  talking  to  some  in- 
ferentially  charming  lady  through  a  curtain,  and  she  sud- 
denly puts  her  face  through  and  you  find  she's  got  a 
beard." 

"Ah!  indeed,  yes,"  smiled  Canon  Lister,  trying  to  look 
as  if  he  perfectly  appreciated  the  point.  "Some  of  these 
American  expressions  are  so  forcible." 

Dickie  made  a  movement  as  if  he  would  push  the  young 
Canon  out  of  the  conversation.  "Look  here,"  he  said,  turn- 
ing half  round  in  his  chair  so  that  he  could  face  Ellis. 
"I  apologise  for  that.  You  got  me  on  the  raw,  in  some 
way,  and  I  didn't  know  till  that  moment  that  there  was  a 
raw  there." 

Ellis's  face  conveyed  a  whimsical  amusement.  "Most 
interesting,"  he  remarked.  "Sure  you  haven't  met  the  lady 
before?" 

Dickie  scowled.  "It  wasn't  that,"  he  said.  He  felt  im- 
pelled to  deny  that  the  thought  of  Miss  Sibyl  Groome  had 
any  connexion  with  the  strange  images  which  had  leapt  so 
amazingly  from  their  confinement.  "It  was  nothing  what- 


THE  NEW  OAKSTONE  347 

ever  to  do  with — that,"  he  repeated.  "It  was  your  atti- 
tude towards  what  you  were  saying.  It  made  me  feel  sick 
for  a  moment;  and  I've  knocked  about  in  the  City  and 
Paris  and  New  York  for  five  years  and  I'm  not  a  bit 
squeamish,  as  a  rule." 

"You're  not  making  it  any  better,"  commented  Ellis 
quietly. 

"You  think  I'm  a  prig." 

"I  was  certainly  surprised." 

"And  offended,  of  course?" 

"You  were  abominably  plain  spoken." 

The  company  at  the  table  was  rising,  and  there  was  a 
distracting  clatter  of  voices  and  the  noise  of  chairs  grating 
on  wooden  boards. 

"Well,  send  me  that  book,  anyhow,"  Dickie  said.  "You've 
interested  me  tremendously." 

"I'll  send  it  all  right,"  Ellis  replied  with  a  nod.  "We 
must  meet  and  have  a  talk  when  you  come  back  to  town 
— we'll  see  if  we  can't  find  a  cure  for  that  abnormality 
of  yours." 

They  were,  indeed,  destined  to  meet  often  in  the  future, 
but  Dickie  never  found  conviction  that  the  abnormality  was 
his.  .  .  . 

After  Ellis  had  gone,  Dickie  looked  round  with  a  sud- 
den sense  that  he  had  forgotten  and  missed  something 
he  had  been  waiting  for. 

The  only  persons  left  in  the  dining-room  were  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Moseley  and  Evan  Williams. 


That  conversation  seriously  interfered  with  Dickie's  en- 
quiry into  the  educational  method  of  Oakstone. 

At  first  he  resented  the  interruption  and  fought  against 
it.  He  was  not  accustomed  to  the  domination  of  an  out- 
side thought,  and  was  very  distinctly  annoyed  with  him- 
self when  he  found  that  his  mind  refused  to  entertain  any 


348  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

further  interest  in  the  subject  he  had  come  to  investigate. 
By  way  of  subduing  this  strange  rebellion  he  deliberately 
imposed  himself  on  Mr.  Moseley  when  he  got  up  to  the 
cricket-field.  Evan  Williams  had  gone  back  to  town  imme- 
diately after  the  luncheon;  but  the  head-master's  atten- 
tion was  being  claimed  by  an  endless  succession  of  cross- 
examining  parents. 

Dickie's  manner  of  irruption  amounted  to  rudeness  and 
the  anxious  little  Vicar  of  Pelsworthy  who  had  Moseley 's 
ear  at  the  moment  might  have  resented  the  intrusion  if 
he  had  not  inferred  a  little  too  respectfully  that  the  in- 
truder must  be  a  celebrity.  He  was  unfortunate  enough, 
too,  to  miss  the  name,  and  spent  the  remainder  of  the  after- 
noon fruitlessly  enquiring  of  acquaintances  and  strangers, 
"Do  you  happen  to  know  who  the  big  young  man  in  a 
dark  grey  flannel  suit  is?  His  face  is  quite  familiar  to 
me,  but  .  .  ." 

"It's  too  bad  to  take  up  your  time  this  afternoon,  sir," 
Dickie  said  to  Moseley,  with  an  effect  of  issuing  a  royal 
command,  "but  I'm  tremendously  interested  in  your  method. 
I  was  here  under  Barnard,  you  know." 

Moseley, — he  was  a  short,  stoutish  man, — laughed  pleas- 
antly. "If  you  can  keep  the  parents  off,"  he  said,  "I'll  do 
what  I  can." 

The  Vicar  of  Pelsworthy  excused  himself  at  once,  and 
went  off  to  confirm  his  inference. 

"Come  over  to  the  other  side  of  the  field,"  Moseley  said 
to  Dickie. 

But  the  only  impression  left  on  Dickie  by  the  conversa- 
tion that  followed  was  summed  up  in  Ellis's  remark,  "It  is, 
at  least,  a  beginning."  Something,  certainly,  was  being 
done  at  Oakstone.  The  English  public  school  tradition  was 
being  thrown  overboard  a  little  at  a  time,  but  the  jettison 
had  to  be  conducted  warily. 

"I  can't  afford,  yet,  to  refuse  boys,"  Moseley  admitted. 
"In  ten  years'  time,  perhaps,  I  may." 

And  although  the  principle  indicated  by  Mr.  Bailey  of 
educating  a  boy  up  to  and  by  means  of  his  natural  bent 


THE  NEW  OAKSTONE  349 

was  clearly  recognised,  there  was  certainly  room  for  a  great 
advance  in  the  method  of  ascertaining  the  evidences  of 
any  tendency  that  was  not  immediately  manifest. 

"I  shall  have  over  three  hundred  boys  here,  next  term," 
Moseley  remarked  thoughtfully,  "and  it  is  impossible  for 
me  to  watch  them  all  individually." 

"And  your  staff?"  put  in  Dickie. 

"Is  nearly  as  difficult  a  problem  as  the  parents,"  Moseley 
said;  "and  they  are  very  difficult,  indeed.  They  will  plan 
their  boys'  futures  from  the  moment  the  boy  is  born,  and 
in  many  cases  they  are  absolutely  immovable.  If  George 
is  meant  for  the  church,  we  have  to  teach  the  duffer  Latin 
and  Greek,  although  he'll  probably  break  away  before  he 
leaves  the  University  and  chuck  all  he's  learnt — little 
enough,  probably — to  the  winds.  It's  such  a  waste  of  time ; 
ours  as  well  as  the  boy's. 

"And  the  staff  ?  Yes,  it's  not  easy  to  let  them  out  of  the 
public  school  and  university  tradition.  I  get  young  men, 
when  I  can,  but  most  of  'em  seem  unable  to  regard  school 
teaching  as  anything  but  mental  discipline  for  the  boys. 
The  theory  worked  more  or  less  in  their  own  case,  you  see ; 
and  such  a  tiny  percentage  go  in  for  school  mastering  be- 
cause they  want  to  teach.  It's  taken  up  faute  de  mieux  by 
the  majority." 

"Have  you  read  Ellis's  book  ?"  asked  Dickie. 

"  'The  Young  Idea,'  oh !  yes.  Splendid  stuff  in  a  way ; 
but  most  of  it  unpractical  from  our  point  of  view.  It 
frames  an  ideal,  but  he's  so  impatient." 

Dickie  stood  staring  out  across  the  burnt  green  of  the 
sunny  field,  over  the  group  of  white  figures  that  drew  to 
a  nucleus  about  the  wickets,  and  towards  the  vivid  garden 
of  colour  that  clustered  round  the  new  pavilion.  All  the 
theory  of  education  that  an  hour  or  two  ago  had  appeared 
engaging  and  essential  had  become  suddenly  dull  and  fatigu- 
ing. Instead  of  figuring  as  a  fascinating  enterprise,  it  had 
taken  on  the  air  of  all  that  dusty,  necessary  work  at  which 
he  had  so  conscientiously  laboured  in  the  Medborough  Bank 
or  the  dark  offices  in  Austin  Friars.  He  could  understand 


350  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

that  this  high  employment,  beginning  to  take  shape  here 
at  Oakstone,  was  not  work  for  him,  but  he  could  not  under- 
stand why  he  had  lost  interest  in  an  hour.  Had  Ellis 
poisoned  his  mind,  or  was  he  going  to  be  ill?  The  latter 
seemed  an  absurd  hypothesis.  He  had  not  been  ill  since 
he  and  Latimer  had  enjoyed  the  measles  together,  as  little 
boys.  He  realised  with  a  faint  shock  of  astonishment  that 
he  had  missed  the  purport  of  Moseley's  last  remark. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  Dickie  apologised.  "I  was  thinking 
of — of  Ellis,  I  believe.  He's  a  queer  chap.  I  was  talking 
to  him  at  lunch.  I've  never  met  him  before." 

Moseley  nodded.  "I'm  afraid  I  must  be  getting  back, 
now,"  he  said.  "I  hope  you've  got  all  the  information  you 
wanted.  To-day  I  am,  naturally,  a  trifle  harassed." 

"I  shall  be  down  at  Halton  for  three  months,"  Dickie 
returned.  "I  should  like  to  come  over  and  see  you,  some- 
time. I  am,  really,  tremendously  interested." 

"Capital,"  Moseley  said,  genially.  "I  shall  be  delighted. 
I  shall  be  here,  alone,  at  the  end  of  the  holidays.  I'll  show 
you  round  the  shops,  if  you  can  come  then.  Now!  So 
sorry,  but  Lady  Constance  is  going  back  by  the  3.40 ;  some 
function  at  the  Palace,  I  believe.  And  I  want  to  have  a 
word  with  her  about  her  boy.  Good-bye." 

He  shook  hands  warmly  with  Dickie  and  trundled  off 
to  make  the  circuit  of  the  field  towards  the  pavilion. 

Dickie  reflected  that  he,  also,  might  as  well  go  by  the 
3.40.  He  would  get  all  the  information  he  wanted  by  visit- 
ing Oakstone  in  September.  Until  then  he  might  put  educa- 
tion out  of  his  mind.  There  was  nothing  for  him  to  do, 
here.  And  then  he  impatiently  turned  away  from  the 
pavilion  and  the  gate  into  the  road  that  led  to  the  station, 
and  made  his  way  to  the  shadow  of  the  elms  in  the  far 
corner  of  the  field.  He  had  the  shade  all  to  himself.  The 
little  white  figures  about  the  wickets  were  almost  hidden 
by  the  fall  of  the  ground. 

He  was  remembering  how  in  the  old  days,  when  he 
was  in  Wickford's  form,  he  had  diligently  swatted  up  his 
Caesar,  finely  resolute  to  keep  his  mind  away  from  any 


THE  NEW  OAKSTONE  351 

contemplation  of  tempting  problems  in  algebra.  Was  he 
more  capable  of  concentration  in  those  days,  he  wondered ; 
or  why  was  it, — unless  he  were  incredibly  going  to  be  ill, — 
that  he  felt  unable,  now,  to  fix  his  attention  upon  Oak- 
stone  and  its  method,  and  keep  out  the  intruding  figure 
of  Ellis?  Even  there,  alone  in  the  shadow  of  the  elms, 
Dickie  insisted  upon  describing  the  invader  as  *  'Ellis." 

One  thing,  at  least,  he  could  do.     He  could  stay  under 
the  elms  until  it  was  too  late  to  catch  the  3.40. 


VI 

He  was  home  just  in  time  for  the  half -past  seven  supper. 
He  could  congratulate  himself,  then,  on  the  re-attainment 
of  his  normal  sanity.  He  had  met  another  old  boy  who 
had  been  in  the  first  eleven  the  year  Dickie  got  his  colours, 
and  the  two  of  them  had  borrowed  a  bat,  a  ball,  and  half- 
a-dozen  willing  small  boys,  and  had  gone  to  the  deserted 
upper  field  and  had  an  hour's  practice  at  the  net.  The 
eager,  hot  little  out-fielders  had  been  delighted  by  the  power 
of  Dickie's  drives. 

"Why  weren't  you  playing  for  the  old  boys,  sir?"  they 
asked  him. 

Now,  that  he  was  home  again,  except  for  a  slight  feel- 
ing of  flatness,  Dickie  found  himself  entirely  recovered 
from  the  strange  interference  with  his  mental  balance  that 
had  so  suddenly  upset  him  at  the  luncheon  table.  All  those 
distorted  images  had  been  safely  shut  back  into  their  old 
quarters.  He  knew  quite  well,  now,  what  was  the  matter 
with  him.  He  had  been  idle  for  three  whole  days,  slacking 
about  and  getting  soft.  If  he  were  to  stay  at  Halton  for 
three  months, — and  his  father's  condition  had  finally 
clinched  that  resolve, — he  must  take  up  some  definite  work. 
He  might  learn  Russian,  and  read  up  his  mathematics  in 
relation  to  astronomical  calculations.  He  had,  that  summer, 
met  a  man  named  Levinson,  who  was  an  assistant  at  the 
Royal  Observatory,  and  had  been  down  to  Greenwich  on 


352  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

three  or  four  occasions.  He  decided  to  write  to  Levinson 
and  ask  his  advice.  .  .  . 

The  other  three  were  already  seated  when  he  came  into 
the  dining-room. 

"There's  a  note  for  you,  dear,  from  the  Palace!"  his 
mother  said,  almost  before  he  had  sat  down.  "It  came  at 
five  o'clock  by  the  second  post." 

The  "second  post"  was  a  new  addition  to  the  Halton 
service,  and  Mrs.  Lynneker  still  spoke  of  it  with  a  touch 
of  pride. 

Dickie  frowned  and  pushed  the  note  aside.  "Oh!  yes, 
I  met  Dr.  Olivier  in  the  train  coming  down,"  he  said.  "I 
expect  it's  an  invitation  to  lunch." 

"Aren't  you  going  to  open  it?"  his  mother  asked  in  amaze- 
ment, and  the  Rector  looked  up,  with  puzzled  scrutiny 
from  his  tentative  sipping  of  the  thin  "Revelenta."  (Emma 
had  gone  to  the  other  extreme  this  evening.)  Dickie  was 
more  than  ever  now  a  source  of  wonder  and  doubt  to  his 
father  and  mother.  Neither  Latimer  nor  Edward  had  ever 
received  such  an  invitation ;  and  it  was  twenty  years  since 
the  Rector  and  his  wife  had  last  been  honoured  by  this 
peculiar  mark  of  episcopal  favour. 

"Dick  takes  it  all  for  granted,"  his  father  said  with  a 
rather  grim  smile  that  did  not  conceal  the  pride  he  felt  in 
his  boy's  capabilities. 

"Oh !  it  wasn't  that,  pater,"  Dickie  said.  "Only  I'm  not 
sure  .  .  ."  he  hesitated  before  he  concluded  lamely,  "if  I'm 
particularly  keen  on  going." 

His  mother  could  understand  that.  She  was  unable  to 
conceive  the  fact  that  her  son  would  not  be  horribly  shy 
on  such  an  occasion. 

"Well,  it  may  be  to  say  that  the  Bishop  is  too  busy,  or 
something,"  she  encouraged  him,  and  experienced  a  feeling 
of  vicarious  relief. 

Dickie  tore  open  the  letter  with  the  prong  of  a  fork. 
The  note  was  written  on  a  masculine  paper,  but  the  hand- 
writing of  all  but  the  signature  was  certainly  feminine  and 
pervaded  by  the  faintest  odour  of  scent. 


THE  NEW  OAKSTONE  355 

"Dear  Mr.  Lynneker,"  the  invitation  ran,  "will  you  for- 
give a  very  busy  man  for  such  short  notice  and  come  to 
lunch  here  at  one-thirty,  to-morrow  (Friday)  ?  If  you  can- 
not manage  it,  it  will  be  my  own  fault.  Please  do  not 
trouble  to  answer  this,  but  just  come  if  you  are  able  to." 

No  doubt,  the  letter  had  been  dictated  at  the  same  time 
as  many  others,  and  the  Bishop  had  begun  to  sign  his 
name  as  "Medborough"  (there  was  no  Latin  for  it)  and 
had  then  crossed  out  the  "M"  and  subscribed  himself  "sin- 
cerely yours,  A.  Olivier." 

"I  suppose  he  keeps  a  woman  secretary?"  remarked 
Dickie  with  apparent  irrelevancy. 

"No,  Mr.  Johns  is  the  Bishop's  secretary,"  Eleanor  said, 
"but  he's  away  on  his  holiday,  I  think." 

She  held  out  her  hand  for  the  letter  and  then  scrutinised 
it  intently.  "It  isn't  Lady  Constance's  writing,"  she  af- 
firmed. "She  writes  rather  a  big  hand." 

"Shall  you  go,  dear?"  Mrs.  Lynneker  put  in  anxiously, 
bored  by  these  futile  speculations. 

"I  suppose  so,"  Dickie  said  carelessly.  "Lady  Constance 
was  on  the  platform  to-day.  Bailey, — the  ironmonger,  you 
know, — was  sitting  next  to  me,  and  pointed  her  out.  He 
said  her  brother,  Philip  Groome,  was  staying  at  the  Palace." 

"He's  an  invalid,  I  believe,"  put  in  the  Rector. 

"So  Bailey  said,"  Dickie  agreed.  "That  gawky  son  of 
his  got  a  prize  for  mechanics.  One  would  never  have 
thought  .  .  ." 

"What  shall  you  wear,  dear?"  his  mother  interrupted 
him. 

"My  stock  tweed,  I  suppose,"  Dickie  said.  He  leaned 
forward  and  picked  up  the  Bishop's  note  from  the  table, 
hesitated  as  if  he  intended  to  tear  it  across,  and  then 
crammed  it  into  his  jacket  pocket. 

"I've  made  up  my  mind  to  learn  Russian,  while  I'm  at 
home,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XV 
SIBYL 


DICKIE  arrived  at  the  Palace  twenty  minutes  too  soon. 
He  had  come  in  to  Medborough  by  train,  and  then  had 
forgotten  that  he  would  be  too  early  until  he  had  actually 
rung  at  the  Bishop's  front  door. 

Sibyl  Groome  was  alone  in  the  drawing-room  when  he 
was  announced.  She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  vague  hos- 
tility as  if  she  resented  his  intrusion. 

"Lady  Constance  will  be  down  directly,"  she  said  and 
glanced  at  the  French  clock  perched  up  over  the  Gothic 
fire-place. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  rather  early,"  Dickie  said,  returning  her 
look  of  hostility. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  was  all  her  comment  on  his 
apology.  She  had  not  risen  when  he  came  in,  and  when 
he  sat  down  without  further  remark,  she  returned  to  the 
book  she  had  been  reading  and  was  still  marking  with  an 
intent  finger. 

Dickie  lounged  in  his  chair  by  the  window  and  made  no 
attempt  to  open  a  conversation.  The  drawing-room  was 
on  the  first  floor  and  he  looked  out  at  the  wet  green  of 
the  Palace  lawn,  smooth  and  clean  as  the  cloth  of  a  billiard 
table. 

All  about  him,  here,  were  the  marks  of  age  and  tradi- 
tion. The  two  five-light,  mullioned  windows  with  the 
lozenges  of  their  perpendicular  tracery  filled  in  with  coats 
of  arms  in  stained  glass ;  the  black  oak  panelling  that  com- 
pletely encased  the  long  narrowness  of  the  low  room;  the 

354 


SIBYL  355 

ecclesiastical  richness  of  the  Gothic  fire-place,  over  which 
the  ornate  French  clock  sat  with  a  ridiculous  air  of  feminine 
frills  and  lace,  the  dark  hollows  of  the  coffered  ceiling, 
were  none  of  them  less  than  three  hundred  and  fifty  years 
old,  contemporary,  probably,  with  the  laying  of  that  delicate 
lawn. 

But,  here,  he  felt  no  appeal  against  the  insurgence  of 
the  twentieth  century.  This  room  was  adapting  itself,  ap- 
parently without  effort,  to  the  invasions  of  modernity.  And 
it  seemed  probable  that  Lady  Constance  or  her  husband 
had  had  no  hesitation  in  jumbling  what  had  been,  probably, 
the  furniture  of  their  Kensington  house  into  this  sixteenth 
century  place. 

Dickie's  attention,  wandering  from  point  to  point  as  he 
made  his  inventory,  was  gradually  drawn  to  the  centre  of 
the  room,  to  the  incongruously  comfortable  arm  chair  in 
which  Sibyl  Groome  was,  or  had  been,  reading.  She  still 
held  her  book,  but  she  was  now  frankly  staring  at  her 
visitor. 

Dickie's  eyes  met  hers  with  the  leap  of  an  anticipated 
decision.  It  was  as  if  two  adversaries  after  strategic  cir- 
clings  and  feints  of  evasion  had  suddenly  clinched. 

"Are  you  criticising  the  furniture?"  she  asked. 

Dickie  was  aware  of  a  strong  desire  to  demonstrate  his 
complete  independence  of  Miss  Groome's  opinions  or  per- 
sonality; and  he  did  not  smile  as  he  said, 

"  'Criticising'  is  hardly  the  word,  I  think.  In  fact,  I 
was  wondering  why  modern  furniture  didn't  seem  out  of 
place,  here." 

"I  think  it  does,"  Miss  Groome  returned  with  a  gentle 
vehemence.  "Utterly  out  of  place.  It's  only  temporary,  of 
course,  the  furniture,  I  mean.  This  room,  particularly,  is 
going  to  be  furnished  in  keeping  with  the  style." 

"It'll  be  jolly  uncomfortable,  you  know,"  Dickie  com- 
mented. 

"I  don't  see  why,"  Miss  Groome  said  on  a  cold  note  of 
challenge. 

"No   padding  or  anything  of  that  kind,"  Dickie   sug- 


356  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

gested.  "They  didn't  go  in  for  comfort  in  the  sixteenth 
century." 

"Of  course,  if  you  are  one  of  those  people  who  would 
sacrifice  everything  for  comfort  .  .  ."  she  said. 

"But  what  do  you  sacrifice,  actually?"  he  asked. 

"Oh!  well — Art."  She  brought  out  her  remonstrance 
with  the  air  of  one  committing  herself  irrevocably  to  a 
new  faith. 

"It  isn't  art  to  copy  old  models,"  he  returned  quietly. 

Miss  Groome  seemed  to  brace  herself.  She  sat  up 
stiffly,  dropped  her  book,  and  clasped  her  hands  together 
with  an  effect  of  preparing  to  be  very  indignant.  And 
indeed,  her  dark  eyes  looked  very  hostile  as  she  said, 

"It  would  be  better  art  than  this,  anyhow.  You  must 
admit  that." 

"I  don't,"  Dickie  returned,  with  an  annoyingly  confident 
air  of  knowing  exactly  what  he  wanted  to  say.  "This 
room,  as  it  is,  expresses  something  of  the  personality  of— 
it's  Lady  Constance,  I  suppose ;  or,  at  least,  of  the  present 
day.  Any  one  could  furnish  this  place  from  old  models. 
You'd  only  have  to  give  an  order  to  any  dealer.  Just  say 
'middle  sixteenth  century,  with  no  hint  of  renaissance  any- 
where,' and  the  thing's  done.  It  would  be  like  sending  your 
maid  to  match  a  piece  of  old  material,  that's  all.  There's 
no  originality  in  it;  no  personal  feeling.  Everybody  can 
do  that.  It's  merely  a  question  of  how  much  money  you're 
prepared  to  spend." 

Miss  Groome  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Of  course,  if  you 
did  it  that  way,"  she  said  contemptuously.  "Aunt  Connie 
means  to  do  it  a  little  at  a  time.  Pick  up  things  in  cottages 
and  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Even  then,  she'd  only  be  doing  it  on  a  theory,  following 
a  canon,"  Dickie  submitted.  "She  wouldn't  be  expressing 
her  own  taste." 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  possibly  know  that,"  Miss 
Groome  began  warmly;  and  then  Lady  Constance  came 
in,  tall  and  graceful,  and  yet  with  an  air  of  drooping  with 
a  faint  deference  to  any  opinion. 


SIBYL  357 

"Am  I — late?"  she  said,  as  Dickie  stood  up  and  bowed. 
She  glanced  at  the  coquettish  clock  as  if  she  doubted  the 
dependability  of  a  thing  so  feminine  and  deceitful. 

"No,  I  was  too  early,"  Dickie  explained.  "I  came  in  by 
train  and  forgot." 

Lady  Constance  smiled.  "One  does,"  she  said,  as  if  she 
found  this  explanation  pleasantly  satisfying.  "I  continually 
forget.  I  must  admit  that  only  yesterday  .  .  ."  She 
leaned  a  little  forward,  comfortably  launched  upon  an  anec- 
dote that  would  fill  the  expectant  interval  without  the  neces- 
sity for  asking  banal  questions.  Her  niece  interrupted 
her. 

"He  .  .  .  Mr.  ...  I  don't  know  his  name,"  she  began 
impetuously. 

Lady  Constance  was  hopefully  inspired  to  say  "Lynne- 
ker"  and  looked  to  Dickie  for  approval. 

"Mr.  Lynneker  has  been  saying  that  it  would  be  bad 
art  to  furnish  this  room  in  its  proper  period,"  Miss  Groome 
went  on  indignantly.  "He  seems  to  be  one  of  those  people 
who  imagine  that  any  sort  of  originality  is  better  than 
having  beautiful  things." 

"Do  you  ?"  commented  Lady  Constance,  and  smiled  again 
at  Dickie  as  if  she  would  tenderly  encourage  any  opinion 
he  cared  to  offer. 

"No,  I  said  that  this  room  did  in  some  way  represent 
you,  that  was  all,"  Dickie  explained.  "And  that  I  preferred 
that  it  should  do  that,  rather  than  be  a  sort  of  show  example 
in  the  business  of  collecting  congruous  pieces  of  old  fur- 
niture." 

"Does  it  represent  me,  do  you  think?"  Lady  Constance 
asked.  "But  how  could  you  know  that?  You  hadn't  ever 
seen  me,  had  you?" 

"I  saw  you  yesterday  on  the  platform  at  Oakstone," 
Dickie  said,  "but  I  expect  I  meant  that  the  room  did  repre- 
sent something  more  or  less  individual,  you  know;  not  just 
a  concession  to  some  particular  dogma." 

But  already  he  could  see  that  he  had  been  wiser  than  he 
knew.  The  eclectic  furnishings  of  that  mediaeval  apartment 


358  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

held  something  of  their  owner's  tender  femininity.  Like 
her,  they  were  gentle,  soft,  conceding.  Even  that  gesticu- 
lating, coquettish  clock  was  nothing  more  than  a  concession 
to  feminine  needs.  The  room  wore  that  clock  as  Lady 
Constance  might  have  worn  an  osprey's  feather  in  her  hat. 

"Oh!  were  you  at  Oakstone,  yesterday?"  Lady  Con- 
stance said.  "I  don't  remember  seeing  you.  I  think  Mr. 
Moseley  is  such  a  dear,  comfortable  person,  and  so  tre- 
mendously right  about  education.  My  eldest  boy  is  in  the 
upper  fourth,  and  the  two  others  will  go  there  as  soon  as 
they  are  old  enough." 

Miss  Groome,  however,  was  not  to  be  diverted  from  her 
purpose  of  finally  crushing  Dickie. 

"Oh !  never  mind  Oakstone,  Connie,  dear,"  she  said  im- 
patiently. "Do  say  Mr.  Lynneker  is  absolutely  wrong  about 
not  having  this  room  refurnished.  You  know  you're  quite 
determined  to  do  it  properly  as  soon  as  you've  got  time 
to  go  about  and  pick  up  things." 

"Mediaeval  furniture  would  be  very  uncomfortable  to 
live  with,"  Dickie  put  in,  disregarding  the  look  of  annoyance 
that  Miss  Groome  shot  at  him. 

"So  hard,  yes,"  agreed  Lady  Constance.  "You  remem- 
ber, Sibyl,  that  I've  always  thought  it  might  be  rather 
hard." 

"We'll  ask  uncle  Clement,"  Miss  Groome  decided. 


ii 

Indeed,  she  resolutely  carried  her  campaign  down  to 
the  dining-room,  where  they  found  Philip  Groome  already 
seated.  In  the  short  interval  during  which  the  Bishop  had 
joined  in  the  discussion  upstairs,  he  had  evidenced  a  laisser- 
faire  attitude  that  his  niece  had  found,  as  she  had  dis- 
tinctly stated,  perfectly  disgusting. 

She  appealed  to  her  father  for  support  directly  she  saw 
him,  misstating  her  case  against  Dickie  with  the  same 


SIBYL  359 

reckless  ingenuity  she  had  shown  at  each  inclusion  of  a 
new  party  to  the  discussion. 

Groome  looked  at  his  daughter  with  quiet  admiration 
that  held  some  touch  of  cynical  approval,  and  then  turned 
the  stare  of  his  dark,  rather  feminine  eyes  upon  the  object 
of  his  daughter's  attack. 

"If  you  have  to  be  a  victim  to  some  obsession,"  he  re- 
marked, "it's  far  safer  to  stick  to  the  antique.  The  victim 
of  originality  is  the  worst  kind  of  bore." 

Dickie  nodded  with  a  casual  air  of  not  being  greatly 
interested.  Miss  Groome's  persistence  was  beginning  to 
annoy  him.  "Any  kind  of  bore  is  the  worst  kind  at  the 
moment,"  he  said. 

Groome  appeared  to  relish  that.  "Oh!  if  it's  only  a 
game,"  he  said,  "I'm  willing  to  take  a  hand.  Which  is 
the  weakest  side?" 

"Mine,"  Sibyl  replied.  "I'm  one  against  three.  Aunt 
Connie  has  deserted  and  uncle  is  just  playing  for  safety." 

"Keeps  him  in  practice  for  diocesan  purposes,"  com- 
mented Groome. 

The  Bishop's  amused  smile  showed  that  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  the  acidity  of  his  brother-in-law's  wit. 

"Better  than  being  too  original,  Phil,"  he  put  in. 

But  Sibyl  hauled  back  the  slipping  conversation  before 
it  was  beyond  reach. 

"Do  try  to  give  me  a  sensible  opinion,  dear,"  she  said 
to  her  father.  "Really,  I  want  to  know  what  you  do  truly 
think.  Do  you  prefer  the  drawing-room  to  be  just  littered 
about  with  any  old  scraps  of  furniture  as  it  is,  now ;  or 
would  you  prefer  to  see  it  done  in  one  style  to  match  the 
panelling  and  the  windows  and  all  that?" 

"Honestly,  I  don't  care,  my  dear  Sibyl,"  was  Groome's 
answer.  "And  I  don't  believe  you  do.  But  I  should  like 
to  know  what  our  friend  here  has  done  to  put  your 
back  up." 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  it  ?"  Sibyl  asked.  "Mr.  Lyn- 
neker  hasn't  put  my  back  up  in  the  very  least.  Of  course, 
if  you  don't  care,  you're  out  of  it  altogether.  It's  just  a 


360  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

question  of  whether  one  does  care  for  beautiful  things 
or  not." 

"No;  it's  a  question  of  what  one  thinks  is  beautiful," 
Dickie  put  in. 

"Well,  surely,  there  can't  be  any  doubt  which  is  more 
beautiful  in  this  case?"  Sibyl  retorted. 

"The  alternatives  being,  as  I  understand  them,"  Olivier 
said,  "your  aunt's  character  and  sixteenth  century  benches." 

"Oh!  here,"  Groome  interposed.  "Where  does  Connie 
come  in?  This  is  one  of  those  new  puzzles.  Is  it  more 
beautiful  to  die  smiling,  or  the  Dome  of  St.  Paul's  ?" 

Lady  Constance  graciously  explained  her  own  inclusion 
in  the  contrast.  "Mr.  Lynneker  was  nice  enough  to  say 
that  the  drawing-room  .  .  .  'expressed'  me,  was  his  word,  I 
think,"  she  added. 

And  then  the  Bishop,  with  a  thought,  perhaps,  of  a 
possible  report  of  this  conversation  at  Halton,  so  far  satis- 
fied his  niece  as  to  attempt  a  serious  criticism  of  modern 
art  in  furniture,  with  references  to  the  Gothic  in  architec- 
ture, which  he  praised  with  obviously  sincere  feeling. 

"You  did  deserve  your  bishopric,  -Clem,"  Groome  re- 
marked when  his  brother-in-law  had  finished.  "I  believe 
you  could  straddle  all  the  stools  in  the  world  without 
falling." 

"The  thing  is  to  be  sure  your  stools  are  reliable  stools," 
Olivier  retorted. 

After  that  the  conversation  wavered  indecisively  about 
art  in  furniture  until  lunch  was  nearly  finished.  Unhappily, 
from  Sibyl's  point  of  view,  no  one  had  succeeded  in  finally 
crushing  Dickie.  Nor  had  she  found  quite  the  opportunity 
she  was  seeking  to  retaliate  for  that  suggestion  of  his ;  the 
"unforgivably  rude" — she  found  other  and  more  pungent 
descriptions  of  himself — implication  that  her  persistence 
was  nothing  but  a  bore. 

Dickie,  in  the  intervals  of  his  attention  to  the  Oliviers 
and  Philip  Groome,  found  time  to  congratulate  himself  on 
the  fact  that  a  nearer  view  of  Lady  Constance's  niece  had 
not  revived  the  disturbing  emotions  which  some  unexplored 


SIBYL  361 

and  hitherto  almost  unrecognised  part  of  himself  had  so 
alarmingly  presented  at  Oakstone.  He  found  a  solace,  now, 
in  assuring  himself  that  Sibyl  Groome  was  quite  an  ordinary 
person.  If  she  had  preserved  for  him  that  oddly  attractive 
air  of  remote  familiarity  which  had  intrigued  him  when  he 
first  saw  her,  he  might  not  have  committed  himself  with 
such  reckless  confidence  to  the  possibility  of  her  nearer 
acquaintance. 


in 

It  was  the  Bishop  who,  obviously  tired  of  a  conversa- 
tion that  had  ceased  to  have  any  point  or  interest,  turned 
to  Dickie  and  resolutely  opened  a  new  subject. 

"By  the  way,  Lynneker,"  he  said,  "I  suppose  you  don't 
know  of  any  decent  houses  to  be  let  furnished  anywhere 
about  here?  My  brother-in-law  finds  that  this  place  suits 
him,  and  he  wants  to  try  it  for  six  months  or  so." 

Dickie  considered  a  moment  and  decided  that  he  was 
perfectly  safe  before  he  said,  "There  is  a  house  in  Halton. 
It  isn't  very  large,  three  sitting-rooms  and  six  or  seven  bed- 
rooms, I  think.  It  belongs  to  the  chap  who  is  technically 
our  squire,  but  he  hasn't  lived  in  it  for  years.  I  know  he 
lets  it  sometimes.  Folliett  acts  for  him,  I  believe." 

"We  might  go  and  look  at  it,  Phil?"  suggested  the 
Bishop,  looking  solicitously  at  his  brother-in-law.  "Halton's 
only  five  miles." 

Groome  waved  his  delicate,  rather  shrunken  hand.  "Let 
Connie  and  Sibyl  go,"  he  said.  "Women  do  understand 
a  little  about  houses." 

"I  suppose  there's  a  garden,"  he  added,  turning  to  Dickie. 

"Oh !  the  garden  is  really  decent,"  Dickie  said.  "Acres  of 
it.  It's  probably  been  let  down  a  bit,  and  about  half  of 
it  has  always  been  quite  wild,  almost  a  park,  you  know; 
but  the  M.  F.  H.  had  it  until  last  spring"  (Eleanor's  let- 
ters never  contained  anything  but  local  news  of  this  type), 
"so  I  daresay  he  kept  it  going." 


THESE  LYNNEKERS 

The  Bishop  recalled  a  memory  of  a  tedious  length  of 
high  wall  on  the  outskirts  of  Halton  village. 

"That's  the  place,"  Dickie  corroborated.  "It's  known 
as  Halton  House." 

Lady  Constance  thought  that  she  and  Sibyl  might  drive 
over  the  next  morning.  "Perhaps  you  could  meet  us  there," 
she  said,  looking  at  Dickie  as  if  she  were  graciously  im- 
ploring his  help  in  some  great  undertaking. 

"Oh!  yes,  rather,"  Dickie  said,  helpfully,  and  suddenly 
discovered  that  for  no  particular  reason  he  was  looking 
at  Sibyl  Groome. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid  that  I  shall  start  the  furniture 
argument  again,"  she  said  with  a  little  girlish  air  of  hauteur. 
"That's  quite  finished,  and  I  am  quite  unconvinced." 

Dickie  reflected  that  she  was,  after  all,  only  a  child ;  and 
that  she  had  probably  been  denied  all  the  usual  chances 
of  her  position  by  being  kept  in  attendance  on  an  invalid 
father.  He  wondered  if  he  had  not  been  foolishly  preju- 
diced in  his  thought  of  her.  She  was  so  manifestly  harm- 
less; just  a  lovely,  harmless  thing,  that  had  tried  to  push 
him  away  with  soft,  feeble  hands. 

"Really  I  know  that  you  were  perfectly  right,"  he  ad- 
mitted. "But  it  was  a  topic,  and  there  is  something  to  be 
said  on  the  other  side." 

"You  mean  that  you  weren't  sincere?"  she  asked  on  a 
note  of  disgust. 

"Were  you?"  he  said. 

She  blushed  vividly.  "Yes,"  she  retorted,  with  a  stare 
that  defied  him  to  challenge  her  statement. 

Olivier  was  whimsically  stroking  his  chin.  "We  won't, 
I  think,  start  that  subject  again,"  he  said.  "Nevertheless, 
I  seem  to  remember,  now,  that  a  day.  or  two  ago  you  were 
imploring  your  aunt  to  leave  that  room  as  it  is." 

"I  hadn't  properly  thought  about  it,  then,  uncle,"  Sibyl 
returned.  "Or  I  may  have  said  so  to  please  aunt  Connie; 
I  knew  she  would  hate  the  bother  of  doing  it  properly. 
But  I'm  perfectly  sincere  about  the  principle." 

"Hang  your  infernal  principles,  Sibyl,"  her  father  put 


SIBYL  363 

in  peevishly.     "Will  you  have  a  look  at  this  place  for  me 
to-morrow  ?" 

"Well,  of  course,  dear,"  she  said  gently.    "We've  settled 
that." 


IV 

A  man-servant  came  with  a  wheeled  chair  to  fetch  Philip 
Groome  when  lunch  was  finished. 

"Are  you  going  upstairs,  Phil?"  Olivier  asked.  "I'll  join 
you  in  half-an-hour.  Lynneker,  I  hope,  is  coming  to  my 
study  for  a  little  talk.  After  that  .  .  ." 

"Really,  a  Bishop  has  not  much  leisure,  Lynneker,"  he 
said  when  he  and  Dickie  were  alone;  "and  just  now  my 
secretary  is  away.  Sibyl  has  been  writing  letters  for  me. 
Well,  I  want  to  continue  the  conversation  we  began  in  the 
train.  Do  you  smoke?  No?  I  admit  a  weakness  for  the 
humble  pipe,  only  permissible  in  these  solitudes,  of  course. 
Now,  would  you  think  me  impertinent  if  I  asked  you  what 
you  intend  to  do  with  your  life?" 

Dickie  was  prepared  to  be  perfectly  frank.  He  appreci- 
ated Olivier 's  charm  and  the  manifest  sincerity  that  under- 
lay his  determination  to  steer  a  safe  course  through  the 
shoals  of  theological  and  political  dissensions  and  intrigue. 
They  came  back  to  that  inevitably  from  their  discussion  of 
Dickie's  future;  the  question  of  what  the  Bishop  called 
"common  prudence,"  underlay  the  whole  problem  they 
were  considering. 

"You  rather  imply  a  criticism  of  me  as  an  opportunist," 
Olivier  said  with  his  genial,  intimate  smile,  in  answer  to  an 
objection  of  Dickie's ;  "and  of  course,  if  I  pleaded  that 
the  end  justified  a  little  laxity  in  method,  you  would  de- 
nounce me  as  Jesuitical." 

Dickie  shook  his  head  impatiently.  "No,  no,  I  shouldn't," 
he  returned,  "I  hate  those  beastly  labels.  People  seem  to 
think  that  if  they  can  find  an  epithet  that  will  stick,  the 
thing  they've  labelled  is  fixed  and  done  with.  Obviously  it 


364  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

isn't.  It  is  only  defined  from  a  certain  point  of  view,  and 
generally  the  epithet  describes  the  mind  of  the  labeller 
better  than  the  thing  he's  labelled.  But  I  do  feel  that  this 
question  of  a  method  must  be  a  personal  problem.  If 
you  feel  convinced  that  you  are  right  in  hinting  your  ap- 
proval of  eternal  damnation  to  my  father  in  order  to  keep 
your  diocese  in  hand,  then  I  think  you're  justified.  I 
couldn't  do  it.  Not  for  any  ethical  reason,  I  think;  but 
because  it  bothers  me.  Of  course,  I  do  equivocate ;  I  must, 
in  ordinary  life,  but  I  couldn't  make  a  profession  of  it,  as 
I  should  have  to  do  if  I  went  into  politics." 

Olivier  winced  a  little.  "I  suppose  if  one  had  the  cour- 
age and  self-reliance,"  he  began,  and  then  abruptly  drew 
down  the  curtain  of  his  ordinary  manner.  Martyrdom 
was  not  his  line,  and  if  there  had  been  moments  in  his 
life  when  he  had  faced  the  thought  of  the  harder  way  to 
salvation,  he  had  satisfied  himself  that  his  gifts  had  fitted 
him  for  another  purpose. 

"I'm  sorry,  Lynneker,"  he  said,  "but  I'm  afraid  our  half 
hour  has  already  grown  into  three-quarters.  I  shall  only 
just  have  time  to  take  you  up  to  the  other  room.  But  we 
must  meet  again.  You  have  interested  me.  If  only  you 
could  have  reconciled  your  beliefs  and  come  into  the 
church  .  .  ." 

"I  might  have  become  a  bishop?"  concluded  Dickie. 

Olivier  laughed  genially.  "Nothing  short  of  Pope  would 
satisfy  you,"  he  said,  but  his  manner  became  more  formal 
as  he  went  on.  "Ah !  and  by  the  way,  Lynneker,  I  should 
really  be  grateful  if  you  would  look  over  that  house  at 
Halton  with  a  more  practical  eye  than  perhaps  my  wife 
and  Sibyl  will  bring  to  it.  The  question  of  dampness  and 
drains,  for  example.  My  brother-in-law  can't  stand 
damp.  .  .  ." 


They  discussed  Dickie  at  the  Palace  that  evening. 
"He  has  that  thing  they  call  'personality,' "  the  Bishop 
said,  "and  an  uncommonly  able  mind,  too,  I  should  say." 


SIBYL  365 

"He  looks  so  strong,"  put  in  Lady  Constance.  "I'm 
sure  I  should  trust  him  anywhere." 

"But  isn't  he  rather  a  prig,  don't  you  think?"  asked 
Sibyl. 

Her  aunt  thought  not;  but  the  Bishop  hesitated,  clutch- 
ing at  an  explanation  of  his  own  success.  "Hm !  I  wonder," 
he  said. 

And  then  Philip  Groome's  soft,  cynical  voice  came  out 
of  the  gloom  of  the  corner  where  he  sat  in  his  invalid 
chair. 

"It's  so  consoling  to  label  any  man  'a  prig'  who  has  the 
courage  of  his  convictions,"  he  said.  "Hasn't  it  ever 
struck  you,  Clem,  that  Christ  was  a  prig?" 

"My  dear  Phil,  you  go  too  far,"  expostulated  Olivier. 

"It's  a  vice,  I  admit,"  Groome  said.  "Even  such  small 
honesties  as  I  am  liable  to,  now  and  again,  spoil  the  de- 
lights of  living.  Let's  be  jolly  and  not  too  inquisitive." 

Olivier  fidgeted  uneasily.  Two  attacks  in  one  day  were 
enough  to  vex  the  most  convinced  mind.  What  was  it  that 
boy  had  intended  when  he  had  upheld  so  gravely  that  to 
enter  the  church  in  order  to  win  a  bishopric  was  an  ambi- 
tion that  made  no  appeal  to  Jiim?  Now  he  thought  of  it, 
Olivier  decided  that  his  visitor  had  overstepped  the  limits 
of  polite  comment.  He  looked  over  to  the  dark  corner 
where  his  brother-in-law  sat,  and  saw  his  pale,  thin  face 
with  its  long,  straight  nose  and  dark  beard,  shining  against 
the  shadowed  panelling  outside  the  little  bright  circle  of 
the  shaded  lamps.  And  it  seemed  to  the  Bishop  that  the 
face  was  like  the  face  of  a  reproachful  Christ. 

"Really,  do  you  know,  I  think  this  house  at  Halton  prom- 
ises rather  well,  Phil,"  he  said  cheerfully. 

Philip  Groome  leaned  back  into  his  former  obscurity 
and  the  exorcised  vision  vanished.  "I  shall  be  uncom- 
monly glad  if  it  will  do,"  he  said.  "I  like  this  place,  and 
I'm  interested  in  our  candid  young  friend,  Lynneker.  He 
has  courage." 

"Utterly  unlike  either  of  his  brothers,"  commented  Oli- 
vier. Already  his  mind  was  at  peace  again.  For  him,  con- 


366  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

stituted  as  he  was,  with  all  his  versatile  abilities,  a  bishopric 
opened  the  widest  field  of  work;  and  he  had  never  been  a 
shirker. 


VI 

Dickie  walked  home  from  Medborough.  He  had  found 
that  his  thought  ran  more  fluently  if  less  consecutively  when 
he  was  physically  active,  and  just  now  he  was  investigating 
a  problem  which  he  knew  was  more  likely  to  find  solution 
by  some  sudden  inspiration  than  by  any  logical  process. 
Nevertheless  he  cleared  the  ground  of  his  approach  by  re- 
calling his  old  premisses  and  deductions. 

He  knew  quite  definitely  that  what  he  sought  was  not 
an  absolute,  but  a  personal,  rule  of  life.  Even  then  he 
recognised  that  his  own  work  in  the  world  would  have  no 
far-reaching  influence.  He  had  none  of  the  characteristics 
of  the  reformer;  no  ambition  to  separate  himself  from 
the  immediacies  of  life,  in  order  to  regard  them  with  critical 
detachment. 

His  recent  conversation  had  confirmed  him  in  that  atti- 
tude. He  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  some  old  yearning  that 
had  once  divided  Olivier's  mind,  and  that  had  been  suc- 
cessfully swamped  by  his  preferment — probably  by  that 
earlier  appointment  to  the  vicarage  of  the  Kensington 
church.  Dickie's  training  in  the  world's  Exchanges  had 
taught  him  to  watch  men's  faces  for  subtle  indications  of 
emotion  or  purpose;  and  in  that,  as  in  so  many  other  em- 
ployments, he  had  exhibited  what  was,  in  effect,  the  quali- 
fying patience  that  must  keep  pace  with  the  natural  apti- 
tude of  the  perfect  workman.  (When  he  sought  any  defi- 
nition of  his  own  capacities,  he  found  more  satisfaction  in 
the  name  of  an  efficient  workman  than  in  any  other.) 

And  realising  the  alternative,  he  still  did  not  blame 
Olivier  for  following  the  easier  road  to  power.  For  Dickie 
had  begun  to  guess  that  many  a  man  who  is  constrained 
by  some  vision  to  seek  martyrdom,  is  unfitted  spiritually 


SIBYL  367 

or  mentally  to  fulfil  the  high  ambition;  and  that  such  a 
man's  failure  may  be  anything  but  splendid.  And  Olivier, 
he  thought,  had  probably  found  a  more  useful  outlet,  so 
far  as  the  world  was  concerned,  by  accepting  high  ecclesi- 
astical office  than  by  offering  himself  as,  say,  a  missionary. 
Indeed,  he  might  have  gained  in  his  own  character.  There 
is  a  discipline  too  hard  for  some  men,  a  discipline  that 
breaks  and  weakens  all  but  the  fiercest  spirits.  Olivier 
had  probably  been  justified  in  his  choice.  He,  possibly,  had 
a  weakness  that  might  have  betrayed  him  under  too  great 
a  strain. 

But  Dickie,  himself,  had  never  been  tempted  by  any 
such  vision  of  an  absolute.  Only  he  had  rejected  those 
paths  to  influence  which  seemed  to  him  unworthy.  And 
if  he  had,  at  last,  accepted  Lessing's  offer  rather  as  a  means 
to  general  knowledge  than  because  he  approved  the  methods 
of  the  money  market,  he  still  believed  that  he  had  come 
nearer  to  life  through  finance  than  he  could  ever  have  come 
through  politics. 

Nevertheless,  he  knew  that  now  as  never  before,  some 
instinct  was  turning  his  face  away  from  Austin 
Friars.  .  .  . 

He  stopped  when  he  came  to  the  private  gate  through 
the  Grinling  woods,  and  remembered  how  he  had  once 
received  there  the  confession  of  his  brother's  love  for  Helen 
Leake.  And  then  with  a  little  shock  of  surprise  it  occurred 
to  him  that  he  had  passed  by  the  gate  of  Thrapley  Rectory 
without  a  single  thought  of  Edward  or  his  wife. 

"I  wonder  if  I  am  less  wide  awake  than  I  used  to  be?" 
he  thought.  The  Lynnekers,  as  a  family,  had  a  trick  of 
annoying  lapses  into  small  fits  of  abstraction.  They  were, 
perhaps,  a  trifle  inclined  to  encourage  those  lapses  as  sug- 
gestive of  a  preoccupation  with  higher  matters  than  those 
that  might  be  under  discussion.  Dickie's  habit  of  mind 
had  always  been  toward  concentration,  but  he  had  the 
gift  of  being  able  to  think  competently  without  losing  his 
awareness  of  present  circumstances. 

He  frowned  and  shook  his  head  impatiently.    He  had  a 


368  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

sense  of  being  interfered  with  and  constrained.  He  felt  like 
Gulliver,  confined  by  a  multitude  of  Lilliputian  threads.  He 
wanted  to  rise  up  in  his  strength,  and  could  find  no  pur- 
chase to  aid  him  towards  re-establishment  on  the  clear 
ground  of  independence. 

Had  Ellis  bewitched  him  yesterday? 

At  lunch,  as  he  had  sat  in  the  stone-panelled  refectory 
that  was  now  the  Palace  dining-room,  odd  thoughts  and 
interruptions  had  interfered  between  him  and  the  con- 
versation about  the  luncheon  table.  In  the  Bishop's  study 
it  had  required  a  conscious  effort  to  keep  his  mind  upon  a 
subject  that  should  have  been  of  more  than  ordinary  in- 
terest to  him.  And  now,  in  the  cool  retreat  of  this  tall 
wood,  apart  from  the  distractions  of  humanity,  he  was  still 
unable  to  control  his  mind.  He  was  conscious  of  a  hurrying 
impatience,  and  of  some  attraction  in  the  sound  of  the 
phrase  "to-morrow,"  that  was  new  to  him.  He  had  always 
been  able  to  find  employment  in  the  day. 

"I  must  face  this,"  he  said  to  himself.  And  as  if  he 
would  find  some  stimulus  in  the  fact  of  placing  himself  in 
a  position  that  demanded  some  relaxation  of  carelessness, 
he  climbed  the  locked  gate  and  entered  the  private  grounds 
of  the  absent-minded  Thrapley  squire,  whose  estates 
stretched  to  the  common  that  was  the  last  boundary  of  Hal- 
ton  parish.  By  crossing  that  corner  of  the  park,  he  could 
cut  off  the  long  detour  necessitated  by  the  looping  road,  but 
he  would  trespass  over  the  most  sacred  part  of  the  pheasant 
preserves.  He  saw  his  adventure  as  a  boy's  game.  He 
had  no  fear  of  any  unpleasant  consequences,  but  he  postu- 
lated an  imaginary  necessity  to  avoid  the  eye  of  a  keeper. 

He  left  the  grass  road  a  few  yards  from  the  gate  and  set 
out  to  make  a  short  cut  through  the  very  heart  of  the 
wood. 

And  he  forgot  his  game  before  he  had  gone  two  hun- 
dred yards.  He  had  determined  to  face  his  problem  and 
suddenly  the  problem  rose  up  clear  and  visible  and  con- 
fronted him.  In  some  unprecedented  way  the  girl  Sibyl 
Groome  had  come  between  him  and  his  sight  of  life. 


SIBYL  369 

He  had  only  seen  her  three  times  and  she  had  come  before 
him  each  time  in  a  different  guise. 

On  the  Oakstone  platform,  she  had  come  with  a  sugges- 
tion of  some  age-long  familiarity,  and  yet  as  something 
immensely  remote  and  unattainable.  The  speech-day  dais 
had  lifted  her  above  any  possibility  of  equal  intercourse, 
and  it  had  seemed  to  him  that  the  dais  had  supported  her 
alone.  Seen  in  retrospect,  the  common  movement  of  all 
the  other  figures  had  had  no  convincing  air  of  reality. 
The  traffic  of  an  ordinary  speech-day  was  something  that 
left  no  distinctive  trace  of  its  passing. 

But  at  the  luncheon  table  in  the  School  House  dining- 
room,  Ellis — quite  definitely,  Ellis  had  been  responsible 
for  some  effect  of  the  change — had  put  her  on  a  level  with 
all  women  as  something  to  be  regarded  not  only  as  ap- 
proachable but  even  easy  of  conquest.  She  was  still  remote 
from  Dickie,  separated  from  him  by  the  fact  that  she  adver- 
tised wares  which  he  had  spent  ten  years  in  avoiding.  His 
passion  at  the  suggestion  of  some  possible  intimacy  be- 
tween him  and  her  had  been  evoked  by  the  destruction  of 
his  former  image  rather  than  by  any  fear  of  entangle- 
ment. But  in  that  moment  he  and  she  had  been  face  to 
face  upon  level  ground. 

And,  now,  to-day,  he  had  seen  her  as  a  human  being 
apart  from  any  thought  of  her  sex.  He  had  seen  her  as 
a  young  girl  who  for  some  reason  that  he  could  not  guess 
had  met  him  with  a  veiled  hostility,  had  patently  resented 
his  opinion  with  regard  to  the  futile  furnishings  of  Lady 
Constance's  drawing-room;  and  had  sought,  with  what  ap- 
peared an  inexplicable  bitterness,  to  find  some  means  of 
snubbing  him.  He  saw  her  attempts  as  a  little  foolish, 
as  the  weak  reprisal  of  an  affronted  child,  seeking  impos- 
sibly to  revenge  the  smart  of  a  new  bruise.  But  then,  for 
the  first  time,  her  personality  had  interested  him.  .  .  . 

He  had  found  again  his  power  of  consecutive  thought. 
There  was  no  longer  any  interference  because  he  had  turned 
all  his  mind  to  the  thing  that  had  been  demanding  and  had 
been  refused  his  attention.  Nevertheless,  he  was  horribly 


370  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

perplexed.  He  no  longer  denied  entrance  to  this  disturb- 
ing phenomenon,  but  he  did  not  pretend  to  understand  it. 

He  had  forgotten  his  intention  to  make  the  secret  pas- 
sage of  Sir  Frederic  Hope's  preserves,  and  came  out  sud- 
denly into  open  ground,  facing  a  range  of  pheasant  pens 
and  wooden  sheds.  As  he  emerged  from  the  shelter  of  the 
wood,  a  man  in  leather  gaiters  came  out  of  one  of  the 
sheds,  and  looked  across  at  Dickie  with  an  air  of  quick, 
furtive  suspicion. 

"Hi!  You!  Where  yer  going?"  the  man  shouted  after 
a  moment  of  alert  suspense. 


VII 

Dickie  walked  deliberately  across  the  open  space  to  meet 
him. 

"Here,  you're  trespassing,  you  know,"  the  keeper  said, 
but  he  did  not  move  from  the  door  of  the  shed  as  Dickie 
approached. 

Dickie  nodded  carelessly.  "I've  no  doubt  Sir  Frederic 
will  overlook  it  this  time,"  he  replied. 

"Of  course,  sir,  if  you're  a  friend  of  Sir  Frederic's/' 
the  keeper  began,  and  the  signs  of  impatient  anger  he  had 
shown  were  again  crossed  by  a  look  of  slightly  shame- 
faced suspicion. 

"I'm  not,"  Dickie  said.  "My  name  is  Lynneker.  I'm  go- 
ing to  Halton." 

The  keeper  scowled,  but  still  stood  squarely  across  the 
entrance  to  the  shed,  the  door  of  which  opened  outwards 
and  was  flung  back  against  the  shingled  wall.  "Well,  you've 
no  right  here.  You  know  that  well  enough,"  he  said.  "Best 
thing  you  can  do  is  to  be  off,  double  quick." 

"Can  I  get  out  through  the  spinney  on  that  side  ?"  asked 
Dickie,  pointing  in  the  direction  of  Halton.  He  gave  no 
sign  of  being  offended  by  the  man's  rudeness. 

"No,  you  can't,"  the  keeper  returned,  and  then  added 
quickly,  "anyway,  you've  no  rights  to." 


SIBYL  371 

'That's  my  nearest  way,  I  suppose,"  Dickie  remarked 
casually. 

The  keeper  made  a  movement  that  seemed  to  express 
an  anxiety  to  be  rid  of  the  trespasser  at  any  cost. 

"I  suppose  you  don't  want  to  get  me  into  trouble,  sir/' 
he  said  with  more  respect.  "Sir  Frederic's  very  particular. 
You've  got  to  trespass,  now,  whichever  way  you  go,  any- 
how ;  and  that's  the  shortest  way  out." 

Dickie  turned  as  if  to  continue  his  short  cut,  and  then 
paused  and  said,  "Oughtn't  you  to  see  me  off  the  estate?" 

The  keeper  was  obviously  embarrassed.  "Afraid  to  go 
alone?"  he  muttered. 

"Do  I  go  straight  through  there  ?"  Dickie  asked,  pointing 
to  a  gap  in  the  wood  towards  Halton. 

"There's  a  path  and  a  ladder  stile,"  the  keeper  said, 
sulkily.  "You  can't  miss  'em."  He  stood  for  a  moment, 
watching  his  undesired  visitor  make  his  way  towards  the 
gap,  but  when  Dickie  looked  back  from  the  edge  of  the 
spinney,  the  keeper  was  no  longer  to  be  seen  and  the  door 
of  the  shed  was  pulled  to. 

Dickie  threw  up  his  head,  sighed  and  dug  his  hands  into 
his  jacket  pockets.  He  knew  the  cause  of  the  keeper's  em- 
barrassment, the  reason  for  his  anxiety  to  be  rid  of  the 
trespasser  with  the  least  possible  bother  and  delay.  The 
skirts  of  the  woman  who  was  hiding  in  the  gloom  of  the 
little  shed  had  been  quite  visible  over  the  keeper's 
shoulder.  .  .  . 

It  was  the  thought  of  all  this  furtive  slinking  and  greedy 
animalism  that  puzzled  and  offended  Dickie.  He  knew  the 
marks  of  it  well  enough.  He  had  seen  them  in  City  bars, 
had  heard  men  talking  without  reserve  and  watched  the 
lust  swim  into  their  stealthy  eyes.  That  keeper  had  been 
shivering  with  anxiety  to  be  rid  of  the  intruder,  at  once 
ashamed  and  angry.  He  had  been  like  a  dog,  become 
hesitatingly  vicious  in  his  desire  to  enjoy  some  fragment 
of  stolen  meat.  He  had  looked  much  as  Ellis  had  looked, 
for  one  quick  instant,  in  the  Oakstone  dining-room.  .  .  . 

Dickie  was  willing  to  admit  that  he  did  not  understand 


372  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

this  thing;  even  to  admit  that  it  was,  perhaps,  the  one  im- 
portant thing  in  life  that  he  had  never  attempted  to  under- 
stand. But  he  did  not  know  that  this  failure  of  his  was 
beginning  to  influence  his  mind  and  body.  In  one  sense  his 
failure  had  been  accidental.  Like  many  boys  he  had  been 
ashamed  of  the  first  indications  of  puberty.  He  had  been 
taught  indirectly  and  by  the  vaguest  hints  and  prohibitions 
that  the  traffic  of  sex  was  a  shameful  thing.  But  whereas 
in  the  overwhelming  majority  of  such  cases  a  boy's  very 
weakness  may  prove  to  be  his  safeguard,  Dickie  had  been, 
in  effect,  too  strong.  Only  on  the  rarest  occasions,  such  as 
that  night  when  he  dragged  Martyn  down  to  the  river  for  a 
midnight  bathe,  had  he  permitted  any  sort  of  desire  to 
come  to  the  surface  of  his  imaginings;  and  never  at  any 
time  but  in  the  open  air.  Always,  the  confinement  of  a 
house  had  had  the  effect  of  presenting  love  in  the  shape 
of  something  to  be  despised  and  desperately  fought  against, 
something  secret  and  unclean. 

Why,  he  asked  himself  as  he  came  out  to  the  edge  of 
the  common  and  saw  the  spire  of  Halton  pricking  up  be- 
hind the  Rectory  elms,  why  could  not  a  man  love  a  woman 
as  a  friend?  Already  he  had  come  as  far  as  that.  He 
was,  as  ever,  honest  with  himself,  and  he  knew,  now,  and 
faced  the  fact,  that  some  quality  in  the  personality  of 
Sibyl  Groome  had  attracted  him  in  a  way  that  had  no 
precedent  in  his  experience.  He  wanted  to  understand  why 
she  had  been  so  hostile  to  him  that  afternoon;  to  under- 
stand her  combination  of  childishness  and  wonderful  experi- 
ence. Her  very  simplicity  had  been  full  of  mystery,  the 
simplicity  of  a  child,  condescending  to  the  interruptions  of 
an  adult  separated  by  an  impassable  bar  of  knowledge 
from  any  intuition  of  the  overpowering  realities  of  imme- 
diate life.  Dickie  was  sure  that  in  her  heart  she  had 
despised  him  because  he  could  not  understand.  And  be- 
hind these  superficial  manifestations  of  her  personality  was 
something  exquisitely  remote  and  unattainable.  On  the 
Oakstone  platform  she  had  seemed  to  embody  a  symbol 
of  the  eternal  spirit,  focussed  for  a  moment  in  an  aspect 


SIBYL  373 

of  beauty.  He  had  seen  her  as  goddess,  woman  and  child ; 
but  in  each  presentation  she  had  been  beyond  his  attain- 
ment and  comprehension. 

Before  he  reached  home  he  had  decided  that  if  the 
Groomes  took  Halton  House,  he  would  do  his  utmost  to 
penetrate  that  reserve  of  hers.  The  adventure  might  help 
him  to  find  some  more  attractive  suggestion  in  the  allure- 
ments of  sex,  than  that  discovered  by  the  greedy  eyes  of 
Ellis,  of  the  men  in  City  bars,  or  of  the  impatient  keeper. 

Dickie  had  no  more  thought  for  his  own  safety  than  any 
other  explorer  whose  chance  of  achievement  must  come  by 
way  of  personal  risk. 


VIII 

He  had  left  the  Palace  at  half-past  three,  and  it  was  past 
five  when  he  entered  the  Rectory  garden.  His  father, 
mother  and  Eleanor  were  having  tea,  or  sitting  over  the 
tea-table,  under  the  sycamore  on  the  front  lawn. 

His  mother  waved  to  him  excitedly  as  he  came  up  the 
path  from  the  side  gate.  "We  thought  you'd  be  sure  to 
come  by  the  3-35,"  she  said,  as  soon  as  he  was  within 
hearing. 

"I  walked  back,"  Dickie  explained. 

"I'll  get  you  some  fresh  tea,"  Eleanor  said. 

"No,  don't  bother.  If  there's  any  milk,  that'll  do,"  Dickie 
returned.  "I  took  it  very  easily." 

His  mother  began  an  automatic,  solicitous  insistence,  but 
his  smile  stopped  her.  She  found  it  so  difficult  to  realise 
that  he  meant  what  he  said,  and  that  if  he  had  wanted  tea, 
he  would  have  fetched  it  for  himself. 

"Well,  how  did  it  go  off?"  she  asked. 

"I  was  a  bit  early,"  Dickie  said.  "We  discussed  the 
aesthetics  of  furniture,  chiefly,  during  lunch ;  and  then  I 
had  three-quarters  of  an  hour  with  the  Bishop  in  his 
study." 

The  Rector  leaning  forward  in  his  chair  with  his  thin 


374  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

hands  clasped  over  the  handle  of  the  stick  that  he  found 
necessary  now,  even  to  walk  the  few  yards  from  the  front 
door  to  the  sycamore  on  the  lawn,  was  watching  his  boy 
with  the  old  admiration  that  had  welled  up  in  him  when  that 
fierce  round  of  applause  broke  out  in  the  old  schoolroom 
at  Oakstone. 

"What  did  you  talk  about  to  Olivier,  Dick?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  we  were  a  trifle  ethical,"  Dickie  said.  "He  seemed 
interested  in  the  choice  of  a  profession  for  me,  and  we 
discussed  honesty  of  purpose,  inside  the  church  and  out 
of  it." 

"Did  he  think  you  ought  to  leave  the  City  ?"  put  in  Mrs. 
Lynneker,  with  a  hint  of  anxiety.  If  the  Bishop  had 
advised  that  step,  she  believed  that  it  would  be  her  duty  to 
confirm  so  high  an  authority. 

"Oh !  he  didn't  offer  me  any  advice,  you  know,"  Dickie 
returned,  and  his  voice  and  expression  suggested  that  he 
would  not  have  been  prepared  to  accept  advice  if  it  had 
been  offered.  "He  did  say  just  as  I  was  going  that  it  was 
a  pity  I  hadn't  gone  into  the  church." 

"Ah!"  commented  the  Rector,  with  considerable  feeling, 
and  Mrs.  Lynneker  sighed  thoughtfully. 

"What  did  you  say?"  Eleanor  asked. 

"Well,  I  rather  hinted  that  even  a  bishopric  didn't  appeal 
to  me  much." 

"Wasn't  that  rather  rude?"  Eleanor's  question  had  the 
flavour  of  a  rebuke. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  was,"  Dickie  admitted.  "He  didn't 
seem  to  mind.  He  said  he  supposed  nothing  short  of  the 
papacy  would  satisfy  me." 

The  Rector  nodded  his  head  with  a  grim  smile.  "You're 
not  thinking  of  going  over,  Dick,"  he  remarked. 

Eleanor  set  her  mouth  into  a  thin  line.  She  was  sternly 
suppressing  her  desire  to  unmask  her  brother's  infidelity. 
Neither  of  her  parents  seemed  able  to  realise  that  he  was 
actually  an  atheist.  "He's  a  humbug,"  she  said  to  herself. 
She  was  torn  between  the  longing  to  speak  out  her  contempt 


SIBYL  375 

for  his  hypocrisy,  and  her  wish  to  protect  her  father  and 
keep  his  regard. 

"Becoming  a  Roman  Catholic?"  Dickie  said.  "Rather 
not.  Too  much  respect  for  my  own  freedom  of  thought." 

"Hear,  hear,"  the  Rector  murmured. 

Eleanor  wondered  how  he  could  be  so  blind. 

"By  the  way,  it's  just  possible  that  the  Groomes  may 
take  Halton  House,"  Dickie  said  to  create  a  diversion. 

He  was  aware  of  his  sister's  frowning  disapproval,  and 
had  no  wish  to  provoke  her  anger.  "Lady  Constance  and 
Miss  Groome  are  coming  over  to  look  at  it  to-morrow,"  he 
went  on.  "I  promised  the  Bishop  I  would  meet  them  there, 
and  find  out  if  the  place  was  damp." 

"That's  Lord  Wansford's  brother,  eh?"  asked  the  Rector. 
For  a  moment  he  was  stirred  to  look  out  from  the  diminish- 
ing circle  of  his  personal  interests.  The  Groomes  were  a 
great  family,  judged  by  any  standard  other  than  that  of 
active  endeavour  in  an  art,  profession  or  calling. 

Mrs.  Lynneker  sat  up  a  shade  more  stiffly,  as  if  she  were 
already  receiving  distinguished  guests. 

"He's  an  invalid,  isn't  he?"  Eleanor  asked. 

Dickie  nodded.  "Hurt  his  spine  in  the  hunting  field," 
he  explained.  "Clever  chap,  rather,  I  should  think." 

His  mother  was  watching  him  with  a  new  alertness. 

"Is  Miss  Groome  pretty  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes!  I  should  think  you'd  say  so,"  Dickie  said.  He 
was  conscious  of  embarrassment,  a  feeling  to  which  he  was 
almost  a  stranger.  "I  saw  her  yesterday,  you  know,  at 
Oakstone." 

"You  never  told  us,"  his  mother  exclaimed  reproach- 
fully. 

"Didn't  I  ?    I  daresay  not.    Why  should  I  ?"  he  asked. 

His  mother  was  looking  at  him  with  an  expression  that 
was  in  some  way  furtive  and  a  little  sly. 

He  jumped  up  quickly. 

"I'm  going  to  put  in  an  hour  or  two's  work  before 
supper,"  he  announced  abruptly. 

Why  should  his  mother  want  him  to  marry  Sibyl  Groomei 


376  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

or  any  one  else?  Why  should  not  a  man  and  a  woman 
be  friends?  It  seemed  to  him,  just  then,  quite  a  horrible 
thing  that  his  mother  should  have  looked  at  him  like  that. 


IX 

The  inspection  of  Halton  House  next  morning  provided 
no  opportunity  for  displaying  Dickie's  calm  intention  to 
seek  an  understanding  of  Miss  Sibyl  Groome's  personality. 
If  he  sought  friendship,  she,  it  seemed,  sought,  and  with 
an  equal  deliberation,  hostility;  and  her  method  on  this 
occasion  appeared  more  likely  to  achieve  that  object,  than 
the  rather  childish,  transparent  petulance  she  had  shown 
at  the  Palace. 

She  made  no  attempt  to  snub  him  by  any  verbal  retort, 
but  she  politely  and  resolutely  ignored  his  opinions.  When 
he  asserted  that  the  house  was  not  damp,  she  listened  and 
made  no  reply ;  and  a  minute  or  two  later  turned  to  Lady 
Constance  and  asked  her  with  an  earnest  solicitude  that 
spoke  of  a  genuine  anxiety  for  her  father's  health,  how 
they  could  make  quite  sure  that  the  house  was  really  dry. 

"You  see,  dear,  it's  the  height  of  summer  now,"  she 
argued,  "but  the  house  does  lie  under  the  hill,  rather, 
doesn't  it?  And  with  all  those  huge  trees  in  the  garden. 
.  .  .  I'm  so  afraid  that  in  the  autumn  .  .  ." 

Lady  Constance  looked  distinctly  worried. 

"Have  you  ever  been  here  in  the  winter?"  she  asked 
Dickie. 

"Once  or  twice,  but  that  was  years  ago/'  he  admitted.  "I 
don't  remember  noticing  anything  particular.  But  I  think 
the  point  is  that  one  can  judge  by  the  walls  and  floors  and 
so  on.  I  haven't  seen  a  stain  on  the  papers  anywhere,  and 
the  woodwork  is  all  perfectly  sound.  Damp  always  leaves 
marks  behind,  doesn't  it?" 

"Of  course,"  agreed  Lady  Constance,  with  obvious  re- 
lief. 

Sibyl's  only  comment  was  the  expression  of  her  inten- 


SIBYL  377 

tion  to  cross-examine  Stanger,  the  caretaker's  husband, 
who  had  not  as  yet  come  in  from  his  farm  work.  "You 
can't  depend  on  what  Mrs.  Stanger  says,"  she  affirmed. 
"Evidently  she  wants  to  let  the  place.  I  suppose  they  get 
a  commission  or  something." 

Dickie  exhibited  no  outward  signs  of  annoyance,  but  he 
looked  at  Sibyl  with  a  visible  perplexity. 

"You  don't  trust  the  evidence?"  he  asked. 

"My  father's  so  awfully  sensitive,"  she  said,  implying 
that  this  was  not  a  case  for  common  tests. 

"Oh!  well,  Halton  is  a  dry  place,  gravel  subsoil,  you 
know,"  Dickie  said,  turning  to  Lady  Constance.  "I  remem- 
ber when  I  was  a  kid  being  very  keen  to  get  some  clay  to 
make  a  little  pond  in  our  garden,  and  I  couldn't  find  any 
in  the  parish." 

"Personally,  I  feel  quite  happy  about  it,"  Lady  Constance 
agreed,  smiling  at  Dickie  as  if  he  alone  were  responsible  for 
the  geological  advantages  of  Halton.  "Don't  you  think, 
Sibyl,  that  we  might  decide  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  I'll  ask  that  man  Stanger  when  he  comes  in,"  Sibyl 
said. 

She  was  equally  firm  about  the  testing  of  the  drains,  over- 
looking Dickie's  suggestion  that  the  village  builder  was  a 
particularly  careful  and  capable  man,  and  proposing  to  her 
aunt  that  a  Medborough  expert  must  certainly  be  called  in. 

Lady  Constance  cheerfully  agreed  to  that  suggestion. 
Her  manner  implied  that  it  was  Sibyl's  turn  for  encourage- 
ment, and  that  no  one  could  find  any  fault  with  this  need 
for  consulting  the  highest  authority. 

"Perhaps  that  would  be  better,"  she  said  to  Dickie. 
"Mead,  you  know,  the  man  in  Long  Causeway,  is  a  capital 
person.  He  did  the  Palace  before  we  went  in." 

"Quite  satisfactorily?"  Dickie  asked. 

"I  suppose  so,"  Lady  Constance  said.  "I  haven't  heard 
of  any  trouble  with  the  drains." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  should  think  Mead  would  be  all  right,"  Dickie 
agreed  carelessly.  "Wouldn't  you  like  to  see  the  gardens  ?" 

Lady  Constance  said  that  she  would,  but  Sibyl  drifted  off 


378  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

into  the  back  premises  to  find  Stanger,  and  they  went  with- 
out her. 

Sibyl  did  not  look  at  him  as  she  bowed  a  mechanical 
good-bye  that  might  have  been  addressed  to  the  big  chest- 
nut tree  on  the  lawn  before  the  house.  She  was  already 
seated  in  the  landau  and  her  attention  was  being  given  to 
an  insistence  upon  the  impossibility  of  settling  anything 
until  her  father  had  been  consulted.  Lady  Constance,  who 
had  just  been  conferring  the  highest  honours  upon  Dickie 
for  so  brilliantly  discovering  the  ideal  house  and  garden, 
was  charmingly  perplexed.  Her  simple  brown  eyes  ex- 
pressed her  single  desire  to  do  anything  she  could  to  please 
everybody. 

"But  surely,  dear/'  she  said  gently.  "I  can't  imagine 
anything  that  he'd  like  better." 

"You  never  know  with  father,"  Sibyl  said.  "I  think  he 
ought  to  see  it  for  himself." 

"But  don't  you  like  it,  Sibyl  ?"  her  aunt  asked. 

Sibyl  looked  back  at  the  bright,  sun-flecked  face  of  the 
white  stone  house  and  then,  with  a  careless  glance  at 
Dickie,  standing  bare-headed  by  the  door  of  the  carriage, 
she  said: 

"It's  so  self-assertive,  so  ...  so  obviously  perfect,  that 
I  feel  certain  there  must  be  something  wrong  with  it." 


When  they  had  gone,  Dickie  sauntered  back  through  the 
grounds  of  Halton  House,  across  the  higher  of  the  two 
lawns  cut  out  of  the  slope  of  the  hill,  past  the  short  range 
of  the  conservatories,  and  then  by  way  of  the  orchard 
paddock  below  the  kitchen  gardens  down  to  the  lane ;  over 
the  brook  and  up  through  the  forty-acre  field, — sown  with 
wheat  that  summer, — to  the  line  of  great  elms  that  stood 
just  within  the  wall  of  the  Rectory  back  garden.  From 
that  wall,  not  more  than  three  feet  high  inside,  at  the  place 
where  the  hillock  that  supported  the  queen  of  the  elms, 


SIBYL  379 

swelled  against  the  stonework,  he  could  see  the  whole 
stretch  of  the  Halton  House  grounds  climbing  the  rise  on 
the  other  side  of  the  little  valley, — the  lawns  and  flower 
beds  just  visible  here  and  there  between  the  trees,  as  an 
advertisement  to  the  stranger  that  this  was  indeed  a 
garden  and  not  a  wood.  Only  the  kitchen  garden  raking 
up  the  slope  and  neatly  enclosed  within  its  ten- foot-high 
brick  wall,  was  bare  of  forest  trees. 

Dickie  had  often  before  stood  under  that  big  elm,  and 
looked  across  at  those  grounds.  The  place  and  the  view 
were  more  especially  associated  in  his  mind  with  that  stage 
in  his  brother's  courtship  of  Helen  Leake,  at  which  Edward 
was  suffering  the  torture  of  what  he  had  construed  as  a 
final  refusal  of  his  advances.  Dickie  remembered  his  own 
impatience  during  that  period.  He  had  seen  the  affair 
then  as  utterly  futile  and  stupid.  He  had  been  sure  that 
nothing  but  his  brother's  lack  of  initiative  had  been  re- 
sponsible for  Helen's  apparent  coolness. 

This  morning  Dickie  was  less  certain  of  the  validity  of 
that  judgment.  It  came  to  him  as  an  entirely  new  thought 
that  it  was  impossible  to  win  the  liking  of  a  woman  by  any 
exhibition  of  one's  abilities  or  desires.  If  she  didn't  like 
you,  she  didn't,  and  that  was  the  end  of  it.  He  had  never 
in  all  his  life  consciously  set  out  to  attract  the  liking  of 
any  one,  man  or  woman.  Many  people  had  liked  him; 
such  diverse  individuals,  for  instance,  as  Lessing,  or  Martyn, 
or  dear  old  Bradshaw,  who  was  now  a  highly  successful 
"society  entertainer."  But  it  appeared  to  Dickie  as  an 
impossible  undertaking  to  win  friendship  by  any  deliberate 
effort.  How  could  one  possibly  set  about  such  an  unlikely 
task? 

His  mother  had  often  used  a  phrase  that  held  the  sug- 
gestion of  embodying  a  method.  She  had,  for  example, 
spoken  of  Edward's  "paying  attention"  to  Helen.  But 
Dickie  could  not  see  himself  paying  attention  in  that  sense 
to  Miss  Groome.  He  had  a  picture  in  his  mind  of  curates 
bobbing  about  with  cakes  at  a  tea-party;  of  insinuating 
smiles  and  shy  compliments ;  of  particularities  in  dress ;  "get- 


380  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

ting  oneself  up  to  kill,"  was  a  familiar  expression  in  that 
connection.  The  thought  of  such  methods  as  these  made 
him  feel  sick.  To  be  a  "lady's  man"  was  surely  the  most 
objectionable  of  ambitions.  No  decent  man  ever  had  such 
an  ambition. 

But  no  alternative  presented  itself  to  him.  He  could  not 
ape  and  fawn  and  smile.  He  had  no  arts  of  attraction.  If 
Miss  Groome  disliked  him,  and  that  inference  seemed  in- 
disputable, he  had  no  power  to  change  her  feelings.  He 
could  only  be  himself;  and  even  if  he  had  the  power  to 
assume — what  was  it  they  called  it  ? — a  "charm  of  manner," 
that  was  not  his  by  nature,  he  would  simply  be  trying  to 
obtain  the  thing  sought,  under  false  pretences.  And  it 
was  certain,  in  any  case,  that  he  could  never  keep  it  up. 

She  had  given  him  a  hint  that  morning.  She  had  implied 
that  the  cause  of  her  dislike  was  his  self-assertiveness. 
He  found  no  truth  in  that  charge.  He  had  been  called  "a 
cock-sure  young  beggar"  in  the  city,  but  that  epithet  had 
always  seemed  to  him  misapplied.  He  associated  the  "cock- 
sure" with  the  boast  of  knowledge.  He  himself  never  ex- 
pressed certain  opinions  unless  the  grounds  for  his  asser- 
tions were  above  suspicion. 

A  sudden,  unusual  spasm  of  annoyance  shot  through  him ; 
and  he  savagely  kicked  at  the  stone  wall  of  the  Rectory 
garden.  Damn  it,  did  women  admire  diffidence  and  cring- 
ing? If  so,  he  was  out  of  the  running.  Surely,  no  one 
could  call  him  self-assertive.  He  did  not  bounce  or  bully 
people.  What  he  did  do,  how  he  appeared  to  other  people, 
he  had  no  idea.  He  had  never  considered  those  things, 
never  had  any  tendency  to  introspection.  And  the  only 
remedy  for  any  such  difficult  perplexity  as  this  which  was 
now  besetting  him,  the  remedy  of  work,  appeared  for  once 
distasteful. 

He  decided  it  might  be  well  to  avoid  meeting  Miss 
Groome  again,  and  then  reflected  that  he  was  doing  ex- 
actly what  Edward  had  done  when  he  had  gloomily  deter- 
mined to  become  a  missionary.  Perhaps  Edward  had  been 
justified,  after  all.  There  was  no  initiative  to  take  in  ap- 


SIBYL  381 

preaching  a  woman  who  for  some  incomprehensible  reason 
had  taken  a  dislike  to  you.  .  .  . 

He'd  be  hanged  if  he  was  self-assertive.  .  .  . 

When  he  went  into  the  house  at  a  quarter  to  one  he 
found  his  mother  alone  in  the  dining-room. 

"Well?"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him  with  cheerful  en- 
quiry. "Did  they  like  it?  Do  you  think  they'll  take  it?" 

"Lady  Constance  was  quite  ecstatic  about  it,"  he  said. 

"Wasn't  Miss  Groome?"  his  mother  asked. 

"She  said  that  it  was  'so  obviously  perfect  that  she  was 
sure  there  must  be  something  wrong  with  it,'  whatever 
that  may  mean,"  Dickie  replied. 

His  mother  had  been  writing  letters  and  she  took  off  her 
spectacles  as  she  said  :  "She's  quite  young,  isn't  she  ?"  Her 
faded  blue  eyes  were  watching  her  son's  face  with  a  shy 
intentness. 

"About  twenty,  I  should  think,"  he  returned  carelessly, 
and  went  on  quickly:  "Mater,  would  you  call  me  self- 
assertive  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  smile.  "I  should  say  you  had 
a  very  good  idea  of  your  own  opinion,"  she  said,  teasing 
him. 

"Does  that  mean  the  same  thing?"  he  asked,  seriously. 

"You  are  a  little  overpowering  at  times,  dear,"  she  said. 
"I  shouldn't  call  it  exactly  being  self-assertive.  But  when 
you  mean  to  do  a  thing,  nobody  has  the  least  influence  with 
you.  Your  father  used  to  complain  about  it  sometimes 
when  you  were  a  boy." 

Dickie  sat  down  in  the  dilapidated  leather-covered  arm- 
chair, a  relic  of  the  original  suite  that  had  come  to  the 
Rectory  when  his  father  and  mother  were  first  married. 
He  looked  down  at  the  frayed  arm,  completely  worn 
through  now  by  the  claws  of  a  long  succession  of  cats. 

"It's  no  use  beating  a  cat  if  you  want  to  teach  it,"  he 
remarked  with  great  irrelevance. 

"We  must  have  that  chair  re-covered,"  his  mother  said, 
frowning. 


382  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"Now,  a  dog  or  a  man  you  can  impose  yourself  upon," 
Dickie  went  on. 

Mrs.  Lynneker  was  obviously  at  fault.  "You  were  never 
fond  of  cats,  were  you  ?"  she  tried,  hesitatingly. 

Dickie  laughed.  "Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "They're 
all  right." 

His  mother's  face  wore  a  look  of  thoughtful  perplexity. 
"Has  this  anything  to  do  with  your  being  self-assertive, 
dear  ?"  she  asked. 

"Well,  only  in  as  much  as  it  seems  to  me  that  women 
and  cats  won't  stand  that  quality  in  a  man,"  Dickie  said. 

Mrs.  Lynneker's  eyes  suddenly  twinkled.  "They  only 
pretend  they  won't,"  she  said.  "But  what  made  you  .  .  ." 

And  then  Dickie  realised  for  the  second  time  in  half  an 
hour  that  he  was  being  very  like  his  brother  Edward.  In 
just  such  a  manner  as  this  had  Edward  been  wont  to  trap 
the  engaging  question. 

"Oh,  Lord!"  he  said,  getting  up.  "I'm  slacking  about 
and  getting  introspective,  that's  all,  mater." 

"I  should  have  said  self-confident  rather  than  self-asser- 
tive," she  continued,  disregarding  his  evasion.  "And  I 
think,  dear,  that  nearly  all  women  admire  self-confidence 
in  a  man." 

But  Dickie  had  no  wish  to  imitate  Edward  any  further 
that  morning. 

"I  say,  isn't  it  nearly  dinner  time  ?"  he  asked. 


XI 

A  grim  determination  to  revive  his  memory  of  the  model 
that  was  apparently  being  thrust  upon  him,  whether  for 
imitation  or  avoidance,  sent  Dickie  over  to  Thrapley  for 
morning  service  the  next  day. 

Edward  had  got  his  canonry  before  Olivier  was  ap- 
pointed, but  neither  Mrs.  Lynneker  nor  Eleanor  was  sure 
whether  or  not  he  was  in  residence  just  then,  Dickie  did 


SIBYL  383 

not  permit  that  uncertainty  to  influence  his  plans.  The  fact 
of  "being  in  residence"  had  no  effect  upon  Edward's 
place  of  abode.  Thrapley  was  less  than  two  miles  from 
the  Cathedral,  and  he  could  take  his  appointed  services 
there  with  no  greater  inconvenience  than  was  entailed  by 
the  necessity  to  borrow  a  curate  from  his  father-in-law  for 
Sunday  matins. 

"I  should  like  to  hear  Edward  in  the  Cathedral,"  Dickie 
said,  and  carefully  avoided  meeting  his  mother's  eye. 

He  was,  as  yet,  rather  amused  than  otherwise  at  his  own 
imitation  of  the  methods  he  had  so  despised  ten  years  be- 
fore. He  recognised  with  a  sort  of  tolerant  contempt  for 
himself  that  he  was  impatient  to  see  Sibyl  Groome  again, 
but  he  believed  that  he  was  in  no  danger  of  being  over- 
come by  her  attraction  for  him.  And  when  he  arrived  at 
the  Thrapley  Rectory,  next  morning,  to  find  a  neat 
brougham  standing  at  the  front  door,  he  only  smiled  at  the 
quick  sense  of  anticipation  afforded  him  by  this  advertise- 
ment of  the  fact  that  Edward  would  be  taking  service  in 
the  Cathedral  and  not  in  his  own  church. 

Dickie  was  shown  by  the  maid  into  the  Rector's  study, 
where  Edward  in  his  cassock  was  apparently  reading  his 
office  for  the  day.  He  greeted  Dickie  with  a  slightly  ner- 
vous effusiveness,  as  if  he  would  have  been  more  affec- 
tionate if  he  had  not  been  greatly  preoccupied  at  that  mo- 
ment by  the  thought  of  the  grave  duties  before  him. 

"We  heard  you  were  at  home,"  he  said.  "We  were  com- 
ing over  to  see  you  to-morrow.  How  are  you?  You're 
looking  very  fit."  But  after  one  glance  at  his  brother's 
face,  he  focussed  his  attention  with  evident  disapproval 
upon  Dickie's  brown  tweed  suit. 

"I'm  all  right,"  Dickie  returned.  "Does  Helen  go  in  to 
the  Cathedral  with  you?" 

"She's  just  getting  ready,"  Edward  said  with  a  quick, 
impatient  glance  at  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece.  "We 
ought  to  be  going  now." 

"Can't  you  find  room  for  me?"  Dickie  asked,  and  then, 
noticing  his  brother's  evident  hesitation,  he  went  on :  "Oh, 


384  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

I  can  go  on  the  box,  you  know.  I  should  like  to  hear  you 
take  the  Cathedral  service." 

Edward  blinked  uncomfortably  and  set  his  mouth  into  an 
expression  of  nervous  disapproval. 

"Or  I  can  walk,  for  that  matter,"  Dickie  suggested.  He 
guessed  now  that  his  clothes  and  not  the  capacity  of  the 
brougham  was  the  objection  against  him;  but  he  wanted 
Edward  honestly  to  admit  the  fact. 

And  Edward,  secure  in  the  dignity  of  his  calling,  might 
have  so  far  overcome  his  reluctance  to  face  the  irritating 
argument  he  expected  to  evoke,  had  not  the  sound  of  his 
wife's  footsteps  on  the  stairs  provided  him  with  a  safe 
opportunity  of  dodging  the  unpleasantness. 

"Ah !  here's  Helen,"  he  said. 

Dickie  inferred  that  his  sister-in-law  was  physically  vig- 
orous as  ever,  but.  certainly  heavier.  Some  big  women  are 
light  on  their  feet,  Helen  was  undeniably  clumsy,  and  her 
descent  of  the  stairs  created  a  mild  tumult  in  the  house. 
And,  even  so,  his  inference  fell  short  of  the  fact.  He  was 
a  little  shocked  by  the  difference  he  found  in  hen 

"Dick!"  she  exclaimed  on  a  note  of  enthusiasm.  "They 
didn't  tell  me  you  were  here.  How  splendid!  Are  you 
coming  in  to  service  with  us  ?  Ted's  in  residence  just  now, 
you  know." 

"Well,  I  don't  think  Ted  wants  me,"  Dickie  said  with  (a 
grin.  "My  tweeds  offend  his  sense  of  decency,  I'm  afraid. 
I  suppose  it  would  be  rather  awful  to  go  to  the  Cathedral 
like  this !" 

She  surprised  him  by  taking  that  objection  with  perfect 
seriousness.  "Oh,  I  see,"  she  said.  "I  hadn't  noticed.  I 
don't  think  it  would  matter  for  once,  would  it,  Ted?" 

"In  any  case,  it's  time  we  went,"  Edward  replied  impa- 
tiently. "We  shall  almost  certainly  be  late  as  it  is." 

"I'll  go  on  the  box,"  Dickie  suggested.  "People  will 
think  that  you're  generously  giving  a  lift  to  a  tramp." 

"I  can't  think  why  .  .  ."  Edward  began. 

"My  dear   chap,"    Dickie   interrupted   him,    "because   I 


SIBYL  385 

haven't  got  either  a  tail  coat  or  a  pot  hat  in  the  world.  I 
don't  wear  'em." 

Helen  had  begun  to  smile  again.  "Well,  never  mind," 
she  said.  "We'll  tuck  you  away  inside  where  you  won't  be 
seen."  She  looked  approvingly  at  her  brother-in-law,  as 
she  added,  "though  you  won't  be  easy  to  hide." 

Edward  sighed  desperately.  "I  shall  certainly  be  late," 
he  said.  He  looked  at  his  wife  with  an  expression  that  in 
some  way  combined  reproof  and  appeal.  He  apparently 
lacked  the  determination  finally  to  lose  his  temper  and  go 
on  alone. 

"Come  along,  for  goodness'  sake,"  Helen  said.  "We've 
never  been  late  yet,  but  we  always  expect  to  be." 


XII 

Dickie  enjoyed  the  Cathedral  service. 

In  the  great  resonant  space  of  the  nave,  only  the  appeal 
of  the  organ, — religious,  perhaps,  but  certainly  not  sec- 
tarian,— had  sufficient  power  to  compete  with  the  sense  of 
something  eternal  in  those  solemn  heights  of  arcade,  tri- 
forium  and  clerestory,  ranging  triumphantly  up  towards 
the  high  obscurity  of  the  painted  ceiling.  Edward's  musical 
voice  was  too  weak  to  reach  the  depths  of  that  magnificent 
fabric;  and,  indeed,  the  whole  service  had  an  effect  of 
being  little  and  distant,  the  chanting  of  a  small  human 
ceremony,  regular  and  clear,  heard  far  away.  It  seemed  a 
symbol  of  individual  man's  weak  control  of  the  forces  in- 
corporated in  these  immense  masses  of  solemn  stone,  or 
revealed  in  the  occasional  slow  thunder  that  shuddered 
through  the  nave  when  the  organ  dropped  to  the  tonic 
of  its  ultimate,  reverberating  bass. 

There,  in  the  minister,  the  tiny  personification  of  mankind, 
presented  by  the  living  bodies  of  priest  or  worshipper,  was 
dwarfed  by  its  comparison  with  the  play  of  his  idealism 
figured  in  the  vast  reverence  of  stone,  or  recalled  by  a 
thought  of  the  imagination  that  had  been  able  to  fill  that 


386  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

immense  place  of  worship  with  adequate  music.  The  little 
white  face  of  the  distant  minister  leading  the  service,  the 
mechanically  correlated  movements  of  the  congregation 
kneeling,  standing  or  sitting  at  his  injunction,  the  thin 
sweetness  of  the  singing  choir,  were  but  the  ephemeral 
manifestations  of  that  passing  generation  of  humanity.  In 
the  mass  mankind  was  negligible,  a  mere  comment  on  his 
own  work.  But  before  a  generation  passed,  it  left  some 
record  of  its  thought  and  ideals,  even  if  the  record  were 
nothing  more  than  the  preservation  of  so  great  a  work  of 
art  as  this  Cathedral,  or  the  perfecting  of  a  musical  instru- 
ment. And  if  it  were  art  that  endured,  then  art  was  but 
the  expression  of  a  universal  aspiration  that  could  reach 
out  beyond  the  limitations  of  the  tiny,  physical  body  and 
cast  a  new  ideal  in  the  matrix  of  the  universe. 

And  somehow,  somewhere,  always  that  ideal  endured. 

Nevertheless  Dickie,  responding  to  his  surroundings  and 
conscious  again  of  another  symbol  added  to  those  he  had 
already  recognised,  was  still  unable  to  state  his  recognition 
in  words,  or  to  frame  his  thought  of  it  in  such  a  form  as 
should  give  him  any  guide  to  the  choice  of  his  future  career. 


XIII 

He  and  Helen  went  out  by  the  north  porch  and  found 
the  brougham  waiting  by  the  priests'  door,  but  Edward 
had  not  yet  left  the  Cathedral. 

"Shall  we  get  in?"  Helen  asked. 

"No,  let's  wait  here,"  Dickie  said.  He  had  turned  his 
back  on  the  Cathedral  and  was  peering  up  without  any 
sort  of  concealment  at  the  windows  of  the  Palace  opposite. 
The  wall  of  the  Palace  grounds  was  eight  feet  high,  and 
the  trees  in  the  garden  were  tall  and  thick,  but  two  lights 
of  one  of  the  drawing-room  windows  were  just  visible. 
The  Bishop  had  been  in  the  Cathedral,  dim  and  remote  on 
his  throne  down  the  dark  perspective  of  the  choir  stalls, 
but  Dickie  had  seen  nothing  of  Lady  Constance  or  Sibyl. 


SIBYL  387 

"Just  as  you  like,"  Helen  returned  with  a  touch  of  im- 
patience. "The  Bishop  was  in  the  Cathedral,"  she  added. 
"I  expect  he'll  be  coming  out  in  a  minute.  Probably  Ted 
is  waiting  for  him." 

"Yes,  I  saw  him,"  Dickie  admitted,  still  staring. 

"Shall  we  walk  round  and  let  Ted  pick  us  up  at  the 
Archway  ?"  Helen  went  on  after  a  moment's  pause. 

A  light  came  to  Dickie  and  he  turned  and  faced  her  "Oh ! 
I  see,"  he  said.  "You're  a  little  afraid  of  their  finding  me 
here  in  tweeds,  eh?  It  didn't  strike  me  that  you  would 
feel  like  that.  Edward,  now  .  .  ." 

"One  must,"  Helen  began,  but  before  she  could  explain 
the  reasonableness  of  convention,  the  anticipated  horror 
was  upon  them.  The  Bishop,  glorious  in  full  canonicals, 
came  out  of  the  priests'  door,  followed  by  his  wife  and 
niece.  Edward,  in  his  cassock,  was  immediately  behind 
them,  but  ranged  himself  with  Lady  Constance  as  they  all 
came  up  the  path  under  the  North  Transept. 

Helen's  blush  could  have  been  due  to  nothing  but  shame. 
She  looked,  indeed,  as  if  she  were  strongly  inclined  to  bolt 
into  the  brougham  and  hide  herself.  And  as  the  party  ap- 
proached, Edward's  face  also  expressed,  with  even  greater 
clearness,  his  dismay  at  the  awful  contretemps. 

Dickie  felt  a  sudden  sympathy  for  them,  a  desire  to 
relieve  their  very  obvious  distress,  but  it  was  Olivier,  who, 
unconscious  of  their  embarrassment,  immediately  saved  the 
situation. 

He  bowed  with  a  kind  smile  to  Helen,  and  then  laid  his 
hand  familiarly  on  Dickie's  shoulder.  "Tremendously 
obliged  to  you,  Lynneker,"  he  said.  "I  think  that  place  will 
suit  my  brother-in-law  admirably." 

"We  have  quite  decided  to  take  it  for  three  months," 
Lady  Constance  added,  graciously  beaming  her  congratula- 
tions. "From  the  middle  of  August.  There  are  the  drains 
and  so  on  to  be  tested,  you  know." 

Sibyl  Groome  was  apparently  addressing  some  disre- 
garded remark  to  the  startled  canon. 

For  a  minute  or  two  the  Oliviers  and  Dickie  discussed 


388  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

Halton  House,  and  then  the  Bishop,  by  way  of  ending  the 
interview,  remarked :  "Come  over  again  next  Sunday 
morning,  Lynneker.  I'm  preaching — on  a  text  that  will 
interest  you:  'It  is  expedient  that  one  man  should  die  for 
the  people/  Come  in  to  lunch  afterwards  and  criticise 
me." 

"It's  a  good  subject,"  Dickie  said.  "Thanks,  yes,  I  will 
certainly  come." 

He  looked  at  Sibyl  and  for  one  instant  she  looked  back  at 
him.  Her  expression  was  less  hostile  this  morning,  he 
thought.  He  did  not  feel  at  all  as  he  supposed  Edward 
used  to  feel  when  he  was  mutely  supplicating  Helen  for  the 
least  sign  of  encouragement.  .  .  . 

The  return  journey  to  Thrapley  was  almost  convivial. 

Edward  having  endeavoured  to  the  best  of  his  ability  to 
indicate  his  displeasure  at  rinding  his  secularly  dressed 
brother  full  in  the  path  of  an  ecclesiastical  procession,  was 
now  confident  that  Dickie  could  not  have  seen  his  ex- 
pression of  disapproval. 

"I  didn't  know  you  had  met  the  Bishop,"  he  said,  with 
an  elaborate  air  of  not  being  at  all  surprised  by  the  fact. 

"Dick  is  such  a  surprising  person,"  Helen  put  in.  She 
made  no  attempt  to  deceive  herself,  and  only  hoped  that  her 
astonishing  brother-in-law  had  not  been  offended. 

"Met  him  in  the  train  coming  down,"  Dickie  explained. 

Edward  was  doing  his  best  to  make  himself  agreeable. 

"Didn't  you  know  him  before?"  he  asked. 

"No ;  we  just  struck  up  an  acquaintance,"  Dickie  said. 

"You  seem  to  be  on  pretty  familiar  terms,"  Edward  per- 
sisted. 

"Oh!  I  went  there  to  lunch  on  Friday,"  Dickie  said. 
"And  Lady  Constance  and  Miss  Groome  were  over  at  Hal- 
ton  yesterday.  Her  brother,  Groome,  you  know,  is  going 
to  take  Halton  House  for  three  months.  I  went  and  looked 
over  the  place  with  them.  They're  rather  decent  people, 
aren't  they?  The  Bishop  and  I  have  got  an  argument  on. 
He  told  me  he  was  going  to  preach  at  me  next-  Sunday 
morning." 


SIBYL  389 

"You'd  better  come  over  to  us  on  Saturday  and  spend 
the  night,"  Helen  said ;  and  then  she  met  Dickie's  eye  and 
blushed. 

"Oh,  well,  Dick,  we  may  as  well  be  honest,"  she  went  on, 
drawing  herself  up.  "You'd  be  the  same  if  you  lived  down 
here.  I  don't  think  the  Bishop  likes  us  much  for  some 
reason  or  another.  .  .  ." 

"You've  no  sort  of  grounds  for  thinking  that,"  Edward 
interrupted  her. 

"Well,  we  do  think  so,  don't  we?"  she  protested. 

Edward  frowned  his  disapproval  of  the  line  she  was 
taking.  "We  may  not  be  particular  favourites  of  his,"  he 
said,  "but  I  don't  see  that  we  have  any  reason  to  suppose 
that  he  dislikes  us." 

"In  any  case,  we  have  to  propitiate  him,  Dick,"  Helen 
concluded.  "You  do  see  that,  don't  you?" 

"It's  the  very  point  he  and  I  have  been  arguing,"  Dickie 
said,  "the  question  of  expedience.  Olivier  ought  to  agree 
with  you,  anyway.  He  says  that  one  is  justified." 

"And  don't  you?"  Helen  asked. 

"I  daresay  that  he  may  be  justified,"  Dickie  returned, 
"but  I  don't  think  /  should  be,  because  I  don't  feel  that  way 
about  it." 

"I  suppose  you  never  have  tried  to  propitiate  any  one, 
have  you?"  Helen  said. 

"Not  in  the  way  we  meant,  perhaps,"  Dickie  admitted. 

"Of  course,  you  can  afford  to  be  eccentric,"  Edward  put 
in.  "You're  not  dependent  on  any  one  but  yourself  for 
preferment."  He  was  doing  his  utmost  to  be  agreeable, 
but  this  young  brother  of  his  was  certainly  a  peculiarly 
annoying  person.  Now  that  he  had  recovered  from  his 
surprise,  Edward  was  annoyed  by  the  fact  that  Dickie 
should  be  on  such  easy  terms  with  the  Bishop.  To  the 
Rector  of  Thrapley  it  seemed  in  some  way  he  could  not 
precisely  define,  that  Dickie  was  exempt  by  some  accident 
of  fortune  from  all  the  restraints  and  essential  limitations 
that  perpetually  harassed  himself.  It  would  be  impossible 
for  any  one  in  his  position  to  take  up  that  attitude  towards 


390  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

the  Bishop  of  Medborough.  And  if  that  attitude  were  in- 
imitable, it  was  best  to  regard  it  as  being  unadmirable. 
"Rather  cheek,  isn't  it,  for  you  to  argue  with  Dr.  Olivier  ?" 
Edward  said,  with  a  happy  recovery  of  the  elder  brother  air 
that  he  had  been  in  danger  of  losing. 

"Oh!  it  wasn't  on  a  matter  of  scholarship,  you  know," 
Dickie  explained.  "You  don't  claim  infallibility  in  the  Eng- 
lish Church,  do  you?" 

Edward  smiled  condescendingly.  "You  haven't  altered 
much  in  the  last  ten  years,"  he  said.  "You're  certainly  the 
most  ingenuous  person  I've  ever  met."  He  had  found 
sudden  consolation  in  the  thought  that  the  Bishop  was 
probably  interested  in  Dickie  as  in  some  curious  phenome- 
non. 

Helen  was  fidgeting  with  her  prayer-book. 


XIV 

It  required  no  unusual  perspicacity  on  Dickie's  part  to 
guess  that  his  brother's  marriage  had  not  been  a  success. 
And  he  did  not  attribute  the  failure,  as  his  mother  might 
have  done,  to  the  fact  that  Edward  and  Helen  had  had  no 
children.  In  that  menage,  children  would  have  aggravated 
the  occasions  of  disagreement.  Helen  annoyed  her  hus- 
band. Her  appearance  was  a  constant  source  of  criticism. 
She  was  careless  in  her  dress,  and  her  rapidly  increasing 
stoutness  was,  Edward  thought,  largely  her  own  fault.  She 
did  not  take  care.  She  ought  to  diet  herself.  But  her  chief 
cause  of  offence  was  that  while  she  did  not  understand  him, 
she  imagined  that  she  understood  him  extremely  well,  and 
was  liable,  now  and  again,  to  commit  the  unforgivable  sin 
of  proving  it  in  small  ways  that  did  not  affect  his  certainty 
of  her  radical  failure  to  do  him  justice.  Children  would 
not  have  brought  them  together,  but  they  might  have  given 
Helen  another  outlet. 

And  Dickie,  even  during  the  course  of  lunch,  proved  that 
he  would  be  Helen's  ally,  not  his  brother's.  Dickie  and 


SIBYL  391 

Helen  had  common  ground.  Their  discussion  of  Adela's 
return  proved  that. 

Dickie  had  said  that  he  was  tremendously  eager  to  see 
Adela  again,  and  Helen  with,  as  Edward  thought,  her 
usual  inability  to  understand  the  subtleties  of  their  social 
position,  had  enthusiastically  agreed. 

"That  chap  Oliver  isn't  coming,  too,  is  he?"  Edward 
asked. 

"No,  I'm  afraid  not,"  Dickie  said.  "I  hear  that  he  has 
done  very  well  out  there.  I  daresay  he  will  be  coming  over 
later  on,  but  we  haven't  offered  him  much  inducement, 
as  far  as  I  can  make  out." 

"Well,  naturally,"  Edward  commented. 

"You're  so  infernally  provincial,  Ted,"  remarked  Dickie. 

"That,  even  if  true,  is  quite  beside  the  point,"  his  brother 
returned.  "The  plain  fact  is  that  we  couldn't  introduce 
this  fellow  Oliver  to  the  people  we  know,  and  his  presence 
would  be  a  horrible  embarrassment." 

"We  do  have  to  consider  these  things,  Dick,"  Helen  put 
in  with  an  absurdly  apologetic  air. 

"It's  too  obvious  to  need  statement,"  Edward  said  in  a 
tone  which  implied  that  any  one  but  his  fool  of  a  brother 
could  see  that. 

The  annoying  Dickie  refused,  as  usual,  to  be  snubbed. 

"Well,  that's  why  I  wouldn't  go  in  for  any  of  these  po- 
lite callings  like  the  church  or  politics,"  he  said.  "They 
handicap  you  so  fearfully.  Don't  you  find  it  annoying,  Ted, 
to  have  a  particular  circle  of  friends  forced  upon  you  by 
the  accident  of  your  position?" 

"I  happen  to  prefer  that  particular  circle,"  sneered  Ed- 
ward. 

"Oh,  well,  that's  lucky,  anyway,"  Dickie  said  with  a  grin, 
and  before  his  brother  could  find  an  answer  to  that  am- 
biguity, he  changed  the  conversation  by  saying:  "When 
are  you  coming  over  to  Halton  ?  I  think  that  the  pater  and 
mater  feel  that  you  have  been  neglecting  them,  rather." 

"We  were  coming  to-morrow,"  Helen  said,  as  if  she 
would  propitiate  him. 


392  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"Well,  why  don't  you?"  Dickie  suggested. 

"You  find  it  difficult  to  imagine  that  my  time  is  pretty 
well  filled  up,  I  suppose?"  Edward  enquired. 

"I  daresay  it  is,"  Dickie  agreed,  "but  the  pater  isn't  a  bit 
well,  you  know,  and  he's  nearly  seventy-six."  There  was  a 
note  of  earnestness  in  his  voice  that  caught  his  brother's 
attention. 

"You  don't  mean  that  he's  seriously  ill,  do  you?"  he 
asked. 

Dickie  hesitated.  "He  looks  pretty  bad,"  he  said.  "And 
at  that  age,  of  course  .  .  ." 

"Why  didn't  Eleanor  let  us  know  ?"  Edward  asked  peev- 
ishly. "You  can't  expect  us  to  know  these  things  by  in- 
stinct. Of  course,  we'll  come  over  to-morrow.  .  .  ." 

"Only  don't  let  the  pater  see  that  you  think  he's  seriously 
ill,"  Dickie  said.  "You  know  how  he  hates  to  be  fussed 
over." 

"I'm  not  quite  a  fool,"  Edward  affirmed. 


xv 

That  conversation  with  Helen  and  Edward  and  the 
chance  meeting  with  the  Oliviers  and  Sibyl  had  cut  across 
the  mood  induced  in  Dickie  by  his  sense  of  something  per- 
manent in  the  Cathedral.  It  seemed,  as  Edward  had  sug- 
gested, so  undeniable  that  the  choice  of  a  profession  en- 
tailed many  restrictions  of  personal  freedom.  It  was 
perfectly  true  that  a  Canon  of  Medborough  would  lose  his 
sphere  of  usefulness  if  he  permitted  himself  the  eccen- 
tricity of  introducing  his  workman  brother-in-law  to  the 
Precincts.  And  the  alternative  of  cutting  himself  off  from 
those  surroundings,  of  accepting,  say,  an  East  End  curacy, 
offered  no  profitable  means  of  escape.  Edward  was  no 
more  fitted  for  that  work  than  was  Dr.  Olivier  for  the 
offices  of  a  missionary  to  the  Dyaks  of  Borneo.  In  his 
own  way  Edward  was  no  doubt  efficient  as  a  dignitary  of 
Medborough  Cathedral  and  Rector  of  Thrapley;  and  if  he 


SIBYL  393 

was  not  conscious  of  being  limited  by  his  circumstances, 
whose  business  was  it  to  point  any  other  mode  of  life  as  in 
any  way  higher  or  better  than  that  he  had  chosen  ?  No,  it  all 
came  back  to  the  personal  problem.  Dickie  had  no  kind  of 
wish  to  alter  the  convictions  of  Edward  or  of  Dr.  Olivier, 
but  he  could  not  fail  to  recognise  that  their  ambitions  dif- 
fered from  his  own, — rdiffered  in  kind,  there  need  be  no 
question  of  degree. 

But  now  superimposed  upon  the  difficulty  of  choosing 
some  profession  that  would  leave  him  comparatively  free 
to  think  and  act  as  he  would  was  another  problem  that  this 
Sunday  afternoon  began  seriously  to  intrigue  him.  If — 
he  began  with  the  hypothetical  quality  of  his  assumption 
very  clear  and  insistent, — if  by  any  strange  miracle  Sibyl 
Groome  were  to  overcome  her  hostility  to  himself,  might  he 
not  be  driven  into  facing  a  whole  world  of  impeding  con- 
ventions ? 

His  one  concession  to  Sunday  attire  had  been  the  carry- 
ing of  a  walking-stick,  and  he  cut  viciously  at  a  clump  of 
nettles  by  the  roadside  as  he  took  a  step  further  in  his  great 
hypothesis.  If  he  were  connected  with  the  Palace  and  the 
Wansford  family  by  marriage  what  then?  He  could  see 
only  one  answer.  He  must  go  his  own  way. 


XVI 

THE  HERMIT 


DICKIE  found  employment  during  the  week  that  inter- 
vened between  him  and  the  following  Sunday.  His 
friend,  Levinson,  of  the  Greenwich  Observatory,  had  very 
promptly  answered  the  letter  asking  for  advice,  and  had 
sent  him  some  practical  material,  "computer's  stuff,"  he 
called  it,  that  "could  very  well  bear  a  second  check." 

"You  will  not  be  wasting  your  time  over  it,"  the  letter 
continued,  "as  we  are  rather  short-handed  just  now ;  more- 
over, this  particular  stuff  is  a  trifle  suspect  and  I  shall  be 
rather  glad  of  an  outside  opinion.  Computers  do  go  a  bit 
stale  in  the  dog-days.  You  will  take  great  care  of  it,  of 
course.  We  have  a  duplicate,  here,  but  it's  terrible  stuff 
to  copy." 

To  the  uninitiate  it  was,  indeed,  intimidating  from  any 
point  of  view.  The  Rector  shook  his  head  over  it  with  a 
kind  of  pleased  despair.  "Wonderful,  wonderful,"  he  said 
to  Dickie.  "Beyond  me  altogether."  He  was  evidently 
proud  that  his  son  should  have  the  ability  to  comprehend 
that  awful  conglomeration  of  signs,  letters  and  figures. 

"I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  it  isn't  beyond  me"  Dickie  said 
hopefully.  "My  friend  suggests  that  an  induction  has  gone 
astray  and  hopes  I  shall  be  able  to  find  it."  He  was  im- 
mensely exhilarated  by  the  prospect  of  tackling  an  intricate 
mechanical  problem,  that  was  susceptible  of  a  logical  solu- 
tion. 

394 


THE  HERMIT  395 


ii 

He  had  few  distractions  during  the  month  of  August. 

His  second  luncheon  at  the  Palace,  however  interesting 
in  other  aspects,  marked  no  change  in  his  relations  with 
Sibyl  Groome.  She  took  little  part  in  the  conversation,  and 
her  incidental  contributions  were  not  aimed  at  Dickie,  al- 
though he  gave  her  many  opportunities  to  attack  him  on 
subjects  which  must  have  been  of  far  more  interest  to  her 
than  that  of  the  Palace  furniture. 

Olivier  had  preached  an  excellent  sermon  and  was  artist 
enough  to  be  aware  of  satisfaction  in  his  statement.  His 
plea  for  expedience  had  been  founded  upon  the  ethic  of 
sacrifice,  and  he  had  applied  the  demand  for  renunciation  in 
a  way  that  appeared  to  cover  his  opponent's  argument  for 
freedom.  His  illustration  of  the  Saviour's  superhuman  sac- 
rifice of  His  freedom  had  furnished  him  with  an  exceedingly 
powerful  analogy. 

And  at  lunch  he  pushed  the  argument  right  home. 

"Sacrifice,  Lynneker,"  he  submitted,  "must  entail  a  per- 
sonal loss.  Your  bugbear  is  something  we've  agreed  to  call 
'expedience/  and  it's  a  bugbear  to  you  because  it  entails 
the  sacrifice  of  your  personal  freedom.  To  another  man, 
the  sacrifice  would  be  the  ease  of  professing  orthodoxy. 
And  you  are  not  willing  to  give  up  the  happiness  you  feel 
in  your  independence  of  thought  and  action,  although  you 
may  be  ready  to  admit  that  that  is  the  very  thing  which  it 
would  pain  you  to  surrender.  Isn't  that  a  fair  statement?" 

"It's  sound  enough  if  you're  prepared  to  base  your  whole 
ethic  on  the  necessity  for  sacrifice,"  Dickie  said. 

"Without  sacrifice  you  cannot  serve  mankind,"  Olivier 
returned.  "Will  you  admit  that,  or  are  you  prepared  to 
take  up  the  cudgels  for  all  that  is  implied  by  Nietzschean- 
ism?" 

"No,  I'm  not  prepared  to  do  that,"  Dickie  said.  "And  if 
I  were  we  should  only  drift  into  a  perfectly  useless  argu- 


396  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

ment.  I  don't  want  to  argue,  you  know,  sir;  I  want  to 
understand/' 

"That's  just  where  he  holds  you,  Clem,"  put  in  Philip 
Groome,  who  was  listening  with  keen  interest  to  the  con- 
versation. "That's  where  he  differs  from  any  opponent 
you've  ever  tackled." 

The  Bishop  looked  gravely  at  Dickie.  "I  suppose  that's 
true,"  he  remarked.  "You  are  a  trifle  inhuman  sometimes, 
Lynneker." 

"That  sounds  pretty  beastly,"  Dickie  commented  with  a 
grin. 

"Have  you  no  ambitions  ?"  Olivier  asked.  "Is  there  noth- 
ing you  more  particularly  desire  beyond  this  ability  to 
maintain  your  personal  freedom?" 

Dickie  was  aware  that  he  wanted  to  look  at  Sibyl  and 
dared  not.  "Oh!  as  to  that,  one's  freedom  is  restricted  all 
the  time  in  a  hundred  ways,"  he  said.  "One's  prevented  by 
all  kinds  of  reasonable  conventions  from  doing  no  end  of 
things  one  would  like  to  do." 

"Which  is  no  answer  to  my  question,"  remarked  Olivier. 

"Well,  yes,  there  is  one  thing  I  desire  at  the  present 
moment,"  Dickie  said.  "I  am  devoting  all  my  attention  to 
tracing  a  rather  subtle  induction  in  some  astronomical  cal- 
culations a  friend  sent  me  to  experiment  with.  I'm  fright-, 
fully  ambitious  to  find  it." 

The  Bishop  laughed  delightedly,  but  his  brother-in-law 
had  a  question  to  ask. 

"Yes,  but  look  here,"  he  said.  "What  are  you  going  to 
get  out  of  that  achievement;  fame,  or  occupation,  or  your 
friend's  gratitude  and  approval,  or  what  ?" 

"I'm  going  to  get  the  best  of  that  infernal  calculation," 
Dickie  replied. 

Olivier  shook  his  head.  "If  you  were  a  single-hearted 
specialist,  Lynneker,  I  could  place  you  on  that  remark," 
he  said,  "but  as  it  is,  I  must  repeat  that  you  are  a  little 
inhuman." 

Dickie  found  that  Sibyl  was  looking  at  him  with  an  ex- 


THE  HERMIT  397 

pression  of  faint  relief,  as  if  she  had  already  "traced  the  in- 
duction" that  had  been  perplexing  her. 

"Meanwhile  our  argument  seems  to  have  gone  over- 
board," he  said. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  Olivier  replied  genially.  "I  am  an- 
swered. If  you're  an  exception  to  the  rule  of  humanity, 
you  can't  be  expected  to  sacrifice  yourself,  but  the  rule 
remains  good  for  me  and  the  rest  of  mankind.  " 

"Clem  sacrificed  himself  by  accepting  a  bishopric,"  re- 
marked Groome  thoughtfully,  addressing  no  one  in  particu- 
lar. 

"Certainly,  certainly,"  Olivier  said.  "It  is  an  arduous 
and  thankless  position." 

Groome  ignored  that  and  addressed  himself  to  Dickie. 

"If  your  astronomical  calculations  are  not  too  absorbing, 
Lynneker,"  he  said,  "I  hope  you'll  be  able  to  spare  me  a 
little  of  your  company  when  we  come  to  Halton.  I  find  you 
very  refreshing,  if  I  may  say  so." 

"You  know,  father,  you're  rather  inhuman,  too,  some- 
times," Sibyl  said. 


in 

By  the  end  of  the  second  week  in  August,  it  was  becom- 
ing very  evident  to  three  of  the  four  occupants  of  Halton 
Rectory  that  Mr.  Lynneker  ought  to  remain  in  bed.  He 
was  unable  now  to  take  anything  but  clear  liquids,  and 
often  sickened  at  the  sight  of  the  beef-tea  with  which 
Eleanor  diligently  surfeited  him.  His  strength  had  ebbed 
noticeably  during  the  past  fortnight,  and  it  was  certain  that 
his  splendid  resolution  to  pretend  that  there  was  little 
wrong  with  him  could  not  much  longer  avail  to  postpone 
his  relegation  to  the  sick-room. 

Nevertheless  he  had  steadily  denied  the  necessity. 

"He  ought  not  to  get  up,"  Mrs.  Lynneker  insisted,  with  a 
tragic  air,  when  she  was  alone  with  her  two  children  after 
supper,  one  Thursday  evening. 


398  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"He  fell  down  yesterday,"  Eleanor  commented.  For 
once  she  was  in  agreement  with  the  others,  for  she  believed 
that  when  her  father  was  confined  to  his  bed,  all  the  care 
of  him  would  be  hers. 

"Hurt  himself?"  enquired  Dickie,  with  a  look  of  pain. 

"Very  little,"  Eleanor  said.  "Fortunately  I  was  near  by 
at  the  time." 

"Quite  easy  to  understand  why,  of  course.  .  .  ."  Dickie 
remarked  allusively. 

"I  should  have  thought  he'd  have  been  so  much  more 
comfortable  in  bed,"  Mrs.  Lynneker  said. 

"Yes,  he  would,"  Eleanor  agreed. 

"Giving  up  his  arms,  you  know,"  Dickie  suggested. 

"But  really,  it  isn't  safe  now  for  him  to  be  about,"  Mrs. 
Lynneker  pleaded.  "Couldn't  you  say  something  to  him 
about  it,  dear?" 

"I'm  sure  that  wouldn't  do  the  least  good,"  Eleanor  said. 
"I've  suggested  it  to  father  several  times;  it  only  makes 
him  irritable." 

Dickie  got  to  his  feet.    "I'll  go  up  to  him  now,"  he  said. 

"He  may  be  asleep,"  Eleanor  interposed. 

"He's  never  asleep  when  I  go  to  bed,"  her  mother  said. 
"Don't  you  think,  Eleanor,  that  it  might  be  a  good  thing  for 
Dick  to  speak  to  him?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  returned  Eleanor,  and  then,  as  if  she  had 
reflected  that  only  by  these  means  might  she  be  able  to 
attain  her  object,  she  added  grimly:  "But  Dick  can  try  if 
he  likes.  It  will  probably  upset  father  and  keep  him  awake 
all  night!" 

Dickie  had  more  confidence  in  his  own  diplomacy. 


IV 

The  Rector  had  been  sleeping  for  some  months  now  in 
the  room  that  had  been  occupied  by  Martyn  when  he  had 
come  to  stay  at  Halton  for  Edward's  wedding.  That  room 
had  always  been  assigned  to  the  Rector  for  a  dressing-room, 


THE  HERMIT  399 

although  it  was  as  big  as  any  other  bedroom  in  the  house ; 
but  the  window  faced  east, — the  only  window  in  the  Rec- 
tory that  had  that  aspect, — and  the  room  had  always  been 
accounted  cold  in  consequence. 

When  Dickie  entered,  a  little  benzoline  lamp  was  burning 
on  a  table  within  reach  of  the  bed,  and  an  open  Bible  lay 
on  the  coverlet.  But  the  Rector  was  not  reading.  His 
spectacles  lay  across  the  open  pages  of  the  Testament.  He 
was  lying  on  his  back,  his  knees  drawn  up  and  his  hands 
clasped  together  over  his  midriff. 

Dickie  brought  a  chair  to  the  side  of  the  bed  and  sat 
down. 

"Do  you  get  much  pain,  father?"  he  asked. 
The  Rector  did  not  reply  at  once,  and  when  he  spoke  he 
disregarded  the  question. 

"Your  mother  and  Eleanor  think  it  would  be  better  if  I 
stayed  in  bed,"  he  said. 

"I  know,"  Dickie  returned.    "We  have  been  talking  about 
it.    I  came  up  now  to  ask  you  what  you  would  like  to  do." 
"It  would  be  better  in  many  ways  if  .  .  ."  the  Rector 
began  and  then  drew  his  breath  sharply  and  shut  his  eyes. 
"Always  just  at  this  time,"  he  said  after  a  long  pause. 
"Partly  hunger,  you  know,"  Dickie  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"I  don't  seem  able  to  digest  milk  now,"  his  father  whis- 
pered.    "Wait  a  moment,  Dick,  there's  something  I  ... 
want  to  say." 

For  some  minutes  Dickie  sat  quite  still,  abstracting  his 
attention  from  the  thought  of  his  father's  pain.  It  seemed 
better  not  to  watch  him,  not  to  interfere  in  the  tense,  con- 
tained struggle  that  could  not  be  lightened  by  another's  help. 
And  presently  the  Rector  gave  a  deep  sigh,  straightened  his 
knees  slightly,  and  lifted  himself  higher  on  his  pillow. 
"A  little  water,  Dick,"  he  said. 

Dickie  fetched  him  water  from  the  washstand.  On  the 
table  by  the  bed  was  nothing  but  a  tumbler  of  milk  and  a 
cup  of  beef-tea. 

The  Rector  sipped  a  few  drops  of  water  and  then  settled 
himself  back  upon  his  pillow. 


400  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"Leave  it  on  the  table,"  he  said,  indicating  the  glass  that 
Dickie  still  held.  Then  he  went  on  in  a  firmer  voice :  "It's 
these  horrible  functions  of  ours,  Dick,  that  are  so  much 
trouble.  I  couldn't  let  Eleanor  or  your  mother  help  me." 

Dickie  understood  the  allusion.  "I  will  do  all  that,"  he 
said. 

"If  it  wouldn't  bother  you  too  much,"  his  father  returned. 
"Well,  rather  not,"  Dickie  assured  him. 
"I  can  still  get  out  of  bed,"  the  Rector  continued,  "but 
in  a  few  days  I  shall  be  almost  helpless."     He  paused  a 
moment  and  added :    "It's  a  great  relief  to  me  to  have  you 
here,  Dick.    You'll  stay  until  the  end  ?    I  can  only  hope  that 
it  won't  be  long." 

"I  shall  stay,"  Dickie  said. 

"I  can't  be  bothered  with  injections,"  the  Rector  began 
again  after  another  pause.  "I  don't  see  that  I'm  called  upon 
to  prolong  the  inevitable,  eh,  Dick?" 

"Certainly  not,"  Dickie  agreed.  "Unless  it  would  alleviate 
the  pain,  of  course." 

"I'd  sooner  get  it  over,"  his  father  murmured. 
"You  wouldn't  care  to  have  morphia  now  and  again?" 
Dickie  asked. 

The  Rector  shook  his  head.  "I'd  sooner  fight  it  out,"  he 
whispered.  He  had  closed  his  eyes  again  and  there  was  an 
expression  of  faint  relief  on  his  face.  Dickie  sat  very  still, 
afraid  to  disturb  what  might  be  a  rare  interval  of  peace 
and  freedom  from  pain.  Presently  he  got  up  very  quietly, 
but  at  that  his  father  instantly  opened  his  eyes. 

"I  wanted  you  to  know,  Dick,"  he  said.    "The  others  are 
inclined  to  bother  me  a  little.    If  you  could  make  it  quite 
clear  to  them  that  there's  nothing  to  be  done.  .  .  ." 
"I  will,"  Dickie  affirmed. 

"And  you'll  help  me  with  that  horrible  business  ?" 
"Rather." 

"It's  only  the  early  morning  and  last  thing  at  night.  I 
can  take  so  little  now.  And,  Dick  .  .  ."  he  laid  his  hand 
on  the  Testament  open  at  the  thirteenth  chapter  of  St. 


THE  HERMIT  401 

John's  gospel  and  smiled  faintly  as  he  said :  "Hereafter  I 
will  not  talk  much  with  you." 

"I  understand,"  Dickie  said.  He  leant  over  the  bed  and 
kissed  his  father's  forehead. 

The  Rector  put  up  his  hand  and  grasped  his  boy's  arm. 

"Tremendous,"  he  murmured.  His  fingers  clasped  that 
splendid  solidity  as  if  he  found  support  in  Dickie's  strength. 
Then  he  relaxed  his  hold,  and  having  said  good-bye  to  the 
comforting  world  of  flesh,  settled  himself  down  to  the  im- 
mense struggle  of  leaving  it. 

But  so  tenacious  of  life  were  these  Lynnekers  that  nearly 
a  month  of  endurance  was  still  interposed  between  him  and 
release.  And  if  that  night  the  Rector  appeared  to  have 
entered  upon  the  last  phase  of  his  withdrawal  from  the 
interests  of  living,  he  was  yet  to  demonstrate  on  more  than 
one  occasion  that  the  world  claimed  an  attention  that  he 
could  not  or  would  not  render  to  the  common  routine  of  his 
immediate  contact  with  the  world. 


Fate  had  treated  him  consistently.  For  thirty  years  it 
had  encouraged  him  to  build  up  a  defence  between  himself 
and  his  family;  and  now  had  given  him  the  opportunity 
to  close  his  elaborately  constructed  shell  at  will  with  the 
seal  of  silence. 

In  the  darkness  of  his  own  detached  personality  he 
could  exclude  all  interference  save  the  drag  of  long  physical 
pain.  He  was  freed,  at  last,  from  the  irk  of  responsibility. 
Dick  could  be  trusted  to  shoulder  all  the  care  of  his  mother 
and  sister;  and  the  burden  would  not  handicap  him.  He 
had  the  strength  that  comes  to  those  who  look  outwards 
upon  the  world;  his  mind  was  not  fretted  and  tired  by  the 
struggle  with  life.  He  could  give  out  of  his  abundance 
and  desire  no  return.  He  might  fail  to  enjoy  the  intenser 
joys  of  the  poet,  those  thrilling  ecstasies-  that  the  Rector 
himself  had  known ;  that  Edward  and  probably  Latimer  also 


402  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

touched  at  great  moments ;  but  Dick,  who  never  seemed  to 
seek  for  happiness,  would  surely  find  it.  He  would  not 
know  the  misery  of  aspirations  he  had  not  the  strength  and 
consistency  to  fulfil.  His  steady  ability  and  self-reliance 
were  weapons  that  gave  him  invulnerability. 

His  mother  had  something  of  the  same  qualities.  She 
was  far  weaker  than  her  son,  she  could  be  wounded  by 
personal  worries,  but  the  wound  healed  and  left  no  mark. 
The  Rector's  soul  was  twisted  by  the  great  scars  of  wounds 
that  had  never  satisfactorily  healed. 

He  was  aware  of  the  disfigurement  now  that  he  had  re- 
treated into  the  shell  of  his  living  silence.  But  he  no 
longer  felt  the  pressure  of  a  tormenting  desire  to  be  other 
than  he  was.  He  had  come  out  of  action  into  reflection  and, 
save  at  very  rare  moments,  he  was  content  to  endure  his 
physical  pain  and  give  his  mind  the  liberty  that  had,  at  last, 
been  accorded  to  him. 

One  such  moment  came  to  him  when  Adela  came  home, 
but  neither  Eleanor  nor  his  wife  could  stir  him  to  any 
manifestation  of  feeling. 

Eleanor's  sympathy  had  come  too  late.  When  it  was 
first  hesitatingly  offered  nearly  ten  years  ago,  his  shell  had 
already  hardened.  She  had  never  been  able  to  tempt  him 
into  any  exposure  of  the  private  weakness  he  had  so  sedu- 
lously armoured. 

And  he  was  glad  to  be  alone.  No  physical  pain  was 
beyond  endurance;  and  now  his  mind  was  suddenly,  won- 
derfully, free  from  the  life-long  irk  of  responsibility  either 
to  himself  or  to  others.  All  the  travail  that  remained  was 
of  the  kind  he  had  mastered  in  life.  He  retained  to  the 
end  his  peculiar  modesties  and  delicacies  with  regard  to 
his  body. 

VI 

Eleanor  was  still  further  embittered  by  defeat.  The 
conquest  she  had  hoped  for  had  proved  a  downfall. 

'There  are  certain  things  he  wants  me  always  to  do  for 


THE  HERMIT  403 

him,"  Dickie  explained  to  her,  and  she  realised  the  finality 
of  that  statement.  Not  only  the  world,  but  fate  was  against 
her.  She  had  but  one  source  of  comfort.  God  was  chast- 
ening her  for  some  wise  purpose  of  His  own.  She  was 
one  of  those  whom  He  loved. 

"But  I  must  give  him  his  food,"  she  protested  neverthe- 
less. 

"Oh!  yes,"  Dickie  said,  "but  it's  no  good  to  force  it  on 
him.  It  only  gives  him  unnecessary  pain." 

"But  we  must  do  everything  in  our  power  to  keep  him 
alive,"  she  said. 

"I  daresay,  but  you  won't  keep  him  alive  that  way," 
Dickie  returned.  "Personally,  you  know,  Eleanor,  I  think 
it's  just  useless  cruelty  to  keep  him  alive,  but  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  pain  and  irritation  will  kill  him  before  hunger." 

Some  sense  of  truth  within  her  told  Eleanor  that  her 
brother  was  right,  but  her  habitual  obstinacy  of  thought  pre- 
vented her  from  any  acknowledgment. 

"Dr.  Price  said  the  white  of  an  egg  beaten  up  in  cham- 
pagne might  give  him  a  little  relief,"  she  said.  "I  got  the 
champagne  to-day." 

"Try  it,  by  all  means,"  Dickie  advised  her.  "Only  don't 
force  it  on  him.  Don't  annoy  him." 

"It  all  seems  so  dreadful,"  Mrs.  Lynneker  put  in,  with  a 
weak  suggestion  of  fretfulness.  In  her  heart  she  a  little 
resented  the  elaborate  deliberation  of  her  husband's  dying. 
It  had  cost  her  a  great  mental  effort  to  face  the  indubitable 
fact  that  death  was  inevitable — not  particularly  because  it 
was  her  husband's  death  that  threatened,  but  inasmuch  as 
her  sanguine  temperament  could  not  bear  to  face  such  an 
awful  and  resolute  conclusion.  And  now  it  seemed  to  her 
at  times  unendurable  that  many  days,  or  even  weeks,  must 
be  spent  in  company  with  a  presence  from  which  there  was 
no  least  hope  of  escape. 

"Do — do  you  think  it  can  be  very  long,  now?"  she  asked 
Dickie. 

"I  suppose  it  might  be  some  weeks,"  he  told  her. 

That  very  day  the  Rector  had  been  moving  about  the 


404  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

house,  feebly,  it  is  true,  and  with  the  mark  of  fatal  illness 
upon  him,  but  still  entering  into  their  life.  And  already  the 
realisation  that  he  would  move  among  them  no  more  had 
had  its  effect.  He  had  submitted  to  his  sentence  when  he 
consented  to  remain  in  bed,  and  he  was  no  longer  one  of 
them.  For  Mrs.  Lynneker,  at  least,  he  was  rapidly  becom- 
ing no  more  than  a  memory. 


VII 

Adela  arrived  a  week  later.  She  brought  her  two  chil- 
dren with  her,  a  little  girl,  May,  of  three  years  old,  and  a 
boy  of  eighteen  months,  generally  known  as  Nollie, — he 
had  been  christened  Oliver  Oliver  by  some  imaginative 
freak  of  his  father's.  "We'll  give  him  a  name  that  people 
can  remember"  had  been  his  excuse. 

Dickie  drove  into  Medborough  to  meet  them,  and  failed  to 
recognise  Adela  when  he  first  saw  her  on  the  platform. 
The  slender,  alert,  pretty  girl  of  eight  years  before  had 
grown  into  a  rather  thickset,  anxious  woman  of  thirty-one 
who  looked  more  than  her  age.  Her  features  were  coarser 
and  her  complexion  had  become  sallow.  But  when  he 
came  to  talk  to  her,  Dickie  discovered  that  her  eyes  were 
still  those  of  the  bright,  eager  sister  he  remembered.  The 
young  Adela  looked  out  still  from  those  unchanged  eyes  as 
if  through  a  mask.  Her  personality  also  appeared  changed. 
She  had  different  points  of  view,  different  interests.  She 
was  not  moved  by  the  sight  of  old  familiar  things;  she 
nodded  carelessly  when  Dickie  indicated  the  first  lift  of 
that  thrilling  spire  behind  the  Rectory  elms. 

"Everything  goes  on  just  the  same,  I  suppose?"  she  said, 
and  that  criticism  of  Halton,  and,  indeed,  of  England,  was 
implicit  in  much  of  her  story  of  life  in  Toronto. 

Dickie,  disappointed  and  a  little  resentful,  was  not  able 
to  understand  that  the  unchanged  soul  of  the  little  girl 
Adela  was  thrusting  out  through  new  forms  of  expression. 
But  her  medium  was  changed  as  her  body  had  changed.  She 


THE  HERMIT  405 

had  lived  for  eight  years  in  a  country  that  had  given  her 
no  rest  from  the  pressure  of  life.  She  had  fulfilled  all  the 
needs  of  an  exigent  husband  who  had  been  resolutely  fight- 
ing his  way  to  independence  and  power.  And  she  had  borne 
five  keen,  rich-blooded  children,  four  boys  and  a  girl,  the 
eldest  of  whom,  at  seven  years  old,  was  seriously  consider- 
ing the  problem  of  his  mother's  education.  He  had  dis- 
covered that  she  knew  simply  nothing  of  such  essential 
subjects  as  the  American  Civil  War. 

Little  wonder  that  she  found  Halton  stagnant. 

Even  her  father's  illness  failed  to  touch  her  very  nearly. 
All  she  had  was  given  to  her  husband,  her  five  children 
and  that  new  urgent  country  of  her  adoption. 

"Do  you  mean  that  he  is  actually  dying,  Dick?"  she  in- 
sisted when  he  had  gently  led  up  to  the  climax  of  which 
she  had  been  insufficiently  forewarned  by  Eleanor's  last 
letter. 

"It's  only  a  matter  of  a  week  or  two,"  Dickie  acknowl- 
edged and  explained  the  reasons  for  certainty. 

"Well,  it  does  seem  very  dreadful  to  die  that  way," 
Adela  said.  "Does  he  suffer  much?  But,  of  course,  he  is 
nearly  eighty,  isn't  he?"  Her  voice  hovered  curiously  be- 
tween the  long  practice  of  youth  and  the  imitative  habit  of 
the  past  eight  years.  Now  and  again  her  accent  and  speech 
were  frankly  American.  The  quiet,  intent  little  girl  who  sat 
so  exemplarily  on  the  back  seat,  turned  to  face  forward  on 
this  occasion  as  a  measure  of  safety,  spoke  pure  American. 

"Say,  momma,"  she  began  whenever  she  wished  to  draw 
attention  to  some  striking  difference  presented  to  her  by 
this  first  uninterrupted  sight  of  English  country.  Even 
Nollie,  wide-eyed  and  observant  on  his  mother's  knee, 
bleated  mommie,  instead  of  mummie. 

There  was  little  chance  for  Adela  to  plunge  back  into  the 
emotions  of  girlhood. 

Mrs.  Lynneker  embraced  the  rather  care-worn  woman 
who  had  been  her  daughter,  with  the  respect  due  to  a  con- 
temporary; and  appeared  a  little  shy  of  the  self-contained 
child  who  greeted  her  formally  as  "grandmum,"  and  who, 


406  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

having  offered  a  cool  mouth  to  be  kissed,  remarked  on  the 
cuteness  of  the  back  seat  of  the  "wagon."  "I  just  couldn't 
fall  out  anyway,"  she  said.  No  doubt  it  was  the  one  sure 
thing  on  which  she  felt  her  mother's  family  could  so  far  be 
safely  congratulated. 

"How  she  has  altered,"  Eleanor  commented  when  she 
returned  to  her  mother  and  brother  after  seeing  Adela  and 
her  two  children  safe  in  the  best  spare  room.  "She  looks 
so  old." 

Mrs.  Lynneker,  who  had  given  less  in  her  thirty-seven 
years  of  married  life  than  Adela  had  given  in  eight,  thought 
the  climate  must  have  had  something  to  do  with  it. 

"Her  eyes  still  look  as  young  as  ever,"  Dickie  said. 

"Of  course,  five  children  in  six  years  .  .  ."  Eleanor  be- 
gan with  a  frown  of  disapproval,  but  her  mother  interrupted 
her  daughter  with  the  reminder  that  she  herself  had  also 
had  five  children  in  almost  as  short  a  time. 

"She  must  be  thankful  to  be  home  again  for  a  time," 
Eleanor  said  by  way  of  changing  the  conversation. 

"I  don't  know ;  she  doesn't  seem  to  be,"  Dickie  returned. 
"Oliver  is  doing  very  well  over  there  now  it  seems.  I  think 
she  has  begun  to  miss  the  inspiration  and  urgency  of  her 
home  life  already." 

"She's  sure  to  miss  the  other  three  children,"  Mrs.  Lyn- 
neker thought. 

"She'll  find  Halton  rather  quiet  by  contrast,"  Dickie  con- 
tinued. 

But  when  Adela  came  down  alone  to  tea  in  the  drawing- 
room  she  was  suddenly  full  of  questions  that  hinted  a  tend- 
ency to  reminiscence,  and  once  she  touched  a  genuine  emo- 
tion. 

"Eleanor,  did  you  finish  those  chair-covers?"  she  asked, 
and  looked  at  the  covers  in  question  with  a  faint  blush. 

"Well,  I  did  mean  to  finish  them,"  she  added  when 
Eleanor  had  coldly  returned  an  affirmative,  and  then  went 
on :  "My  goodness,  how  it  brings  all  that  time  back.  Were 
you  all  frightfully  upset?  I  don't  see  how  I  could  have 
helped  it." 


THE  HERMIT  407 

"We've  quite  forgotten  all  that  time  now,  dear,"  her 
mother  said  with  an  air  of  reassurance. 

"Oh,  my  I"  Adela  said  with  a  lapse  that  must  have  been 
induced  by  the  thought  she  had  sent  to  her  home  in 
Toronto.  "Why,  I'll  never  forget  that  time  as  long  as  I 
live." 

The  halting  place  was  to  her  as  a  knot  that  had  tied  the 
contrasted  threads  of  her  two  lives.  The  blind,  reflective 
finger  of  memory  could  pass  smoothly  along  the  different 
strands  of  either  thread,  but  must  always  pause  to  feel  the 
strange  contortion  of  that  sudden  twisted  interweaving. 

Mrs.  Lynneker  found  an  outlet  for  her  automatic  asso- 
ciation of  events  by  making  a  reference  to  Edward  and 
Helen. 

"And  what  is  Mrs.  Latimer  like?"  Adela  asked. 

"I  think  she  and  Latimer  got  on  very  well  together,  al- 
though she  is  so  much  older  than  he  is,"  her  mother  said. 
"And  they've  two  sweet  children." 

"I  suppose  I  shall  see  them,"  Adela  commentd.  "They're 
rather  swells,  aren't  they?" 

"She  had  money,"  Mrs.  Lynneker  explained. 

"And  what  about  Dickie  ?"  Adela  went  on,  and  she  looked 
at  him  with  a  sudden  flash  that  revealed  all  the  girl  he  re- 
membered. "Isn't  he  even  engaged?  And  who  is  living  at 
Halton  House  now?  He  had  his  eye  on  that  wall  all  the 
way  as  we  came  past  and  peered  in  at  the  front  gate  as  if 
he  was  rubbering  at  the  freaks  in  a  dime  museum." 

"Adela !  what  do  you  mean  ?"  gasped  Eleanor.  Her  ques- 
tion referred  not  to  her  sister's  allusion  to  Dickie,  but  to 
the  intention  of  that  last  astounding  phrase. 

"Why,  I  thought  there  must  be  some  attraction  there," 
Adela  said,  and  saw  that  her  mother  was  blinking  and 
shaking  her  head  just  as  she  used  to  do  when  she  warned 
them  against  some  topic  that  might  displease  the  Rector. 

Dickie  saw,  too,  and  grinned  a  little  sheepishly.  "It's  all 
right,  old  girl,"  he  said.  "The  mater  is  very  anxious  to 
pretend  there's  something  in  that  suggestion  of  yours,  but 
there  isn't.  Some  people  called  Groome  have  got  Halton 


408  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

House  for  a  month  or  two.  He's  rather  an  interesting 
chap.  .  .  ." 

"Lord  Wansford's  brother,"  interpolated  Mrs.  Lynneker. 
4 'His  sister,  Lady  Constance,  married  Dr.  Olivier, — our  new 
Bishop,  you  know,  dear." 

"And  who  is  she?"  asked  Adela  gaily. 

"Philip  Groome's  daughter,"  Dickie  said. 

"Oh!"  commented  Adela  with  great  emphasis.  "Fancy, 
little  boy  Dickie  being  in  love !" 

"I'm  not  going  to  stand  any  cheek  from  you,  little  girl," 
he  returned. 

For  a  moment  they  looked  at  one  another  with  all  the  old 
comradeship  shining  in  their  young  eyes,  and  then  Adela 
sighed  and  said : 

"Is  it  really  eight  years  since  I  went  away  ?" 

She  had  recovered  her  touch  of  the  old  thread,  but  a 
minute  later  her  thought  was  back  in  Canada  again.  "I  must 
go  and  see  to  those  children,"  she  said ;  and  the  little  Adela, 
Dickie  had  seen  so  clearly  an  instant  before,  suddenly  van- 
ished, and  he ,  saw  an  unknown  woman  who  was  already 
verging,  prematurely,  on  middle-age. 


VIII 

The  Rector  asked  for  her,  next  day.  They  had  said 
nothing  to  him  of  her  arrival,  but  he  must  have  heard  the 
unusual  traffic  that  stirred  the  house,  and  the  sound  of 
little  May's  pert  American  voice  on  the  stairs. 

"Adela  has  come,"  he  said  to  Dickie  when  the  exhausting 
effort  of  the  morning  function  had  been  made. 

"Came  yesterday  afternoon,"  Dickie  replied. 

The  old  man  lay  for  a  moment  lax  and  spent  before  he 
answered.  "I  must  see  her,"  he  said.  His  voice  was  still 
clear  and  round,  but  it  seemed  to  rise  from  some  hollow, 
reverberating  place,  like  the  sound  of  a  voice  heard  in  an 
unfurnished  room. 

"Now?"  Dickie  asked,  and  his  father  nodded  and  opened 


THE  HERMIT  409 

his  eyes  for  a  moment  with  a  glance  that  suggested  an 
uneasy  regard  for  the  decency  of  his  surroundings. 

Dickie  understood.  "I'll  have  the  room  done,"  he  said, 
"and  then  bring  her." 

And  when  she  came,  the  hermit,  who  lived  day  and  night 
within  the  retreat  that  still  remained  to  him,  made  a  great 
effort,  it  may  be  of  reparation,  and  looked  out  again  at  the 
bright,  hard  world. 

Adela  was  manifestly  startled  by  his  appearance.  The 
configuration  of  the  skull, — jaw,  cheek  bones  and  eye  sock- 
ets,— was  horribly  defined  now,  and  the  image  of  death 
solemnly  proclaimed  its  shape  under  the  poor  disguise  of  the 
drawn  yellow  skin — solemnly  still,  for  the  grin  of  final 
conquest  was  hidden. 

The  Rector  opened  his  eyes  and  put  out  his  hand;  and 
when  Adela  had  taken  it,  gently  pulled  her  down  to  him 
and  kissed  her  cheek. 

"Little  Adela,"  he  said,  in  his  low,  hollow  voice. 

"Yes,  father,"  she  murmured.  She  was  confused  and 
embarrassed.  She  had  learnt  to  buffet  life  in  Canada,  but 
this  slow,  inevitable  dying  frightened  her.  Surely,  no  one 
in  the  new  world  had  ever  died  like  this. 

"Are  you  happy,  Adela?" 

The  question  gave  her  an  outlet.  She  had  been  harassed 
by  the  impossibility  of  proffering  conventional  assurances 
that  he  would  soon  be  well  again,  the  only  consolation  she 
knew. 

"Oh,  yes,  very,"  she  said. 

The  hermit  peered  out  still  further  from  his  retreat. 
"Tell  me,"  he  said. 

She  told  him,  first,  something  of  her  husband's  success. 
How  he  and  his  brother  Harry  had  commanded  high  wages 
from  the  very  beginning,  and  how  they  had  saved  and  in- 
creased their  small  contractor's  business,  putting  into  it 
every  dollar  they  could  spare.  But  when  she  paused,  the 
old  man  showed  her  that  his  thought  of  her  happiness  was 
not  concerned  with  business. 

"You've  been  happy  with  your  husband  ?"  he  asked. 


410  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"With  Frank?  Oh,  yes,"  she  assured  him.  "He  has  been 
so  splendid,  always.  And  we've  five  children,  you  know." 

He  turned  his  head  a  little  and  looked  at  her.  "Your  eyes 
look  happy,"  he  said.  "I'm  very  glad,  very  relieved." 

He  moved  his  hand  towards  her  again  and  when  she  had 
kissed  him,  he  crept  back  into  the  solitudes  of  his  retreat. 

Dickie  made  a  sign  to  her  and  she  followed  him  out  of  the 
room. 

On  the  landing  outside  she  caught  her  breath,  and  her 
tears  came  in  a  gush.  "Oh !  Dick,  it's  so  terrible,"  she 
gasped.  "Will  it  be  long  now,  do  you  think  ?" 

"He  has  hardly  altered  in  the  last  few  days,"  Dickie  said. 
"He  has  been  living  on  water,  practically,  for  a  week,  and 
not  much  of  that.  It's  wonderful  how  he  hangs  on.  His 
vitality  is  simply  extraordinary.  It's  quite  possible  that  he 
may  go  on  like  this  for  days  yet." 

"But  ...  but  he's  just  a  skeleton,"  Adela  protested. 

"I  know,"  Dickie  said  grimly,  and  hesitated  as  if  he 
weighed  the  advisability  of  imparting  the  peculiar  knowl- 
edge he  had  gained  as  his  father's  attendant.  "But  there's 
so  little  waste,"  he  went  on,  rejecting  that  temptation. 
"The  only  energy  he  expends  is  mental.  I  can't  help  think- 
ing that  his  brain  is  going  all  the  time.  He's  perfectly 
clear-headed,  always,  you  know,  perfectly  sensible,  but  he 
won't  talk.  He  hasn't  said  as  much  in  a  week  as  he  said  to 
you  this  morning." 

Adela's  tears  had  stopped  now  and  she  looked  up  at  her 
brother  with  a  faint  smile.  "You  are  so  practical,  Dickie," 
she  said. 

"Well,  that's  a  virtue  you  ought  to  admire,"  he  returned. 
"Frank  and  you  have  to  be  fairly  practical,  don't  you  ?" 

"Oh!  my,  yes,"  Mrs.  Oliver  said. 


XVII 
THE  MISSING  INDUCTION 


THE  Groomes  had  been  at  Halton  House  for  more  than 
a  week  when  Adela  arrived;  and  her  comment  on 
Dickie's  hopeful  peering  up  at  the  long  high  wall  and 
through  the  bars  of  the  big  iron  gates  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill  had  been  fully  justified.  She  had  seen  her  eldest  boy 
exhibit  just  the  same  wistful  eagerness,  if  the  object  of  his 
pursuit  had  been  other  than  the  one  she  had  immediately 
inferred  as  likely  to  attract  her  brother. 

On  that  particular  afternoon,  indeed,  Dickie  had  been 
looking  for  a  sign.  In  something  less  than  a  week  he  had 
come  as  far  as  the  expectation  of  some  such  private  favour, 
although  on  that  occasion  no  sign  had  been  given  to  him. 


II 

Sibyl  had  descended  from  hostility  to  tolerance  two  days 
after  she  and  her  father  had  come  to  Halton. 

Dickie  had  accepted  Philip  Groome's  friendly  invitation 
in  the  spirit  of  its  offer  and  had  "just  cut  across  the  back 
way,"  as  he  explained,  without  waiting  to  attend  his 
mother  on  the  formal  call  she  purposed  to  make  after  a 
decent  interval  of  delay. 

He  found  Groome  on  the  broad  gravel  path  that  made  a 
little  raised  terrace  in  front  of  the  house.  He  was  sitting 
in  a  wheeled  chair,  by  the  aid  of  which  he  could  manoeuvre 
himself  about  over  tolerably  level  ground. 

411 


412  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

''Hallo,  Lynneker;  glad  to  see  you,"  he  called  out,  as 
Dickie  came  up  from  the  garden  door  which  furnished  a 
more  formal  termination  to  the  short  cut  than  the  route 
across  the  paddock  and  through  the  whole  width  of  the 
grounds  behind  the  house. 

He  made  his  explanation  by  way  of  excuse ;  but  if  Philip 
Groome  had  had  no  daughter,  no  excuse  would  have  been 
necessary. 

"Don't  begin  like  that/'  Groome  said.  "I  asked  you  to 
come  and  I  shall  take  it  as  a  favour  if  you'll  come  whenever 
you  can  spare  the  time.  Every  day,  if  you  like,  and  any 
time  that  suits  you.  When  I'm  tired  of  you,  I'll  let  you 
know.  That's  one  of  my  privileges  as  an  invalid.  When 
you're  greeted  by  the  formula  that  I'm  not  up  to  receiving 
visitors,  you  can  draw  your  own  conclusions.  As  an  honest 
man  yourself  you  can  appreciate  honesty  in  me.  And 
apropos  of  that,  I  shall,  of  course,  be  glad  to  see  your  father 
and  mother  if  they  come,  but  I  can't  be  bothered  to  go  to 
church.  It's  not  because  I  can't  go,  but  because  I  won't. 
Clem  accepts  the  fact  that  he  has  married  into  an  agnostic 
family,  and  your  people  must  take  him  as  surety  for  my 
good  intentions." 

"My  mother  won't  worry  you  about  that,"  Dickie  said, 
"and  my  father  is  .  .  ."  he  paused  before  he  added,  "too 
intent  on  his  own  affairs  just  now  to  bother  any  one.  You 
won't  see  him." 

"Scholar?"  enquired  Groome.  "Early  Fathers,  and  that 
sort  of  thing?" 

"No."  Dickie  sighed,  and  sat  down  on  a  garden  seat 
with  his  back  to  the  front  gates  and  his  face  to  the  open 
French  window  of  the  drawing-room.  "No,  he's  dying,"  he 
said.  "It  can't  be  more  than  a  few  weeks  now.  He  has 
known  all  about  it  for  months,  I  think;  but  he  sort  of 
made  his  acknowledgment  last  night.  Took  to  his  bed  and 
admitted  practically  that  he'll  never  get  up  again." 

"Seems  rather  fine  to  you,  eh  ?"  Groome  asked. 

"Yes,"  Dickie  said  quietly,  ignoring  the  suggestion  of 
cynicism  in  Philip  Groome's  tone.  "There  has  been  some- 


THE  MISSING  INDUCTION  413 

thing  fine  about  his  endurance  all  through.  No  kind  of 
pose  or  appeal  for  sympathy,  just  the  courage  to  tackle  the 
whole  thing, — pain  with  nothing  but  death  at  the  end  of  it, — 
without  whining  and  without  any  sort  of  help  from  any 
one." 

Groome  smiled.  "The  point  of  view  of  the  normal, 
healthy  person,"  he  said.  "We  professional  invalids  under- 
stand these  things  better.  We  know  that  we're  cut  off,  and 
that  we  won't  get  sympathy  if  we  ask  for  it.  Also  we  know 
that  your  sympathy  isn't  worth  having.  We  are  in  our  own 
little  world,  and  we  expect  consideration  from  you, — that 
is  necessary  to  make  life  tolerable.  But  not  sympathy,  if 
by  that  you  mean  any  kind  of  real  understanding.  What 
you've  just  said  about  your  father  proves  that  you  don't 
understand." 

"Hm !  There's  something  in  that,  no  doubt,"  Dickie  com- 
mented,  "but  all  the  same,  I  think  I  do  understand  my 
father,  and  he  recognises  it.  We  don't  talk,  now,  but  I 
know  he  knows." 

"There  are  exceptions,"  Groome  admitted  in  a  softer 
voice.  "Sibyl's  an  instance.  She's  a  child,  full  of  moods, 
impetuous  to  a  degree,  and  capable  as  you  heard  the  other 
day  of  calling  me  'inhuman,'  but  she  understands.  She 
doesn't  criticise  or  applaud,  if  you  know  what  I  mean.  I 
had  a  notion  you  were  like  that,  too,  until  you  told  me 
about  your  father." 

"You  put  my  back  up  a  bit,"  Dickie  said,  "so  I  suppose 
I  was  guilty  of  criticism  as  well  as  applause." 

"I  like  your  honesty,"  Groome  returned,  smiling.  "That's 
what  helps  you  to  cut  us  all  up,  Clem  and  me  and  the  rest 
of  us.  We  can't  be  honest,  you  know.  It  isn't  because  we 
don't  want  to  be, — some  of  us,  at  least, — or  because  we 
don't  try,  but  we  simply  haven't  the  faculty.  We  hardly 
ever  know,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  whether  we  are  being 
honest  or  not." 

Dickie,  lounging  on  the  garden  seat,  with  his  hands  in 
his  coat  pockets,  and  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head,  was 
quite  sure  that  he  was  far  from  being  honest  at  that  mo- 


414  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

ment.  Was  he  not  deliberately  concealing  his  purpose  in 
paying  this  visit,  and  in  establishing  himself  on  the  level 
of  a  friend  who  could  be  expected  at  any  time  without  the 
necessity  for  proffering  apology  or  excuse?  Nevertheless, 
he  entertained  no  intention  of  explaining  himself.  He 
watched  the  drawing-room  window  and  waited  patiently  for 
the  appearance  of  the  person  he  had  come  to  see. 

"Honesty  is  one  of  the  things  that  it  doesn't  do  to  think 
about,"  he  said.  "Directly  you  begin  to  question  your  own 
motives,  you're  dead  safe  to  convict  yourself." 

"I  wonder  if  you  really  mean  half  the  things  you  say," 
commented  a  voice  behind  him. 

Dickie  started  and  blushed.  He  had  been  so  sure  she 
would  come  out  by  the  French  window,  and  he  had  been 
picturing  her  as  he  had  last  seen  her  at  the  Palace  at  Med- 
borough.  It  was  a  shock  to  him  when  he  turned  and  saw  her 
in  big  suede  gauntlets  and  a  blue  overall  with  her  hands 
full  of  flowers.  She  was  suddenly  presented  as  another 
person.  He  had  always  seen  her  as  something  of  a  finished 
product,  trained  and  efficient  in  the  ways  of  society.  Now, 
he  saw  her  as  a  schoolgirl  of  nineteen,  and  with  all  the 
immature  questions  and  doubts  of  a  schoolgirl. 

"You  seem  to  have  got  a  down  of  some  sort  on  me,  Miss 
Groome,"  he  said  boyishly.  "I  always  seem  to  rub  you  up 
the  wrong  way." 

She  pouted  her  lower  lip  suspiciously.  "You  do  lay 
down  the  law  so,"  she  said. 

"Clever  young  man,  you  know,"  her  father  put  in. 

"Oh!  yes,  I  daresay,"  Sibyl  returned  carelessly.  "Are 
we  going  to  have  tea  out  here?" 

Her  father  thought  they  might  as  well  have  it  there  as 
anywhere  else. 

"I'll  tell  them,"  Sibyl  said.  "I'll  come  back  when  I've 
put  these  flowers  in  water." 

"Like  this  place  ?"  Dickie  asked  when  she  had  gone. 

"Only  one  objection  to  it,"  Groome  returned.  "There's 
too  much  hill.  I  can't  get  up  those  infernal  steps  in  this 
chair,  you  know." 


THE  MISSING  INDUCTION  415 

Dickie  looked  up  at  the  two  flights  of  steps  that  led  to 
the  upper  garden.  "I  could  get  you  up,"  he  said,  "but 
you  can  avoid  them,  if  you  go  round  by  the  back  lawn." 

"Hill's  too  steep  for  me  even  that  side,"  Groome  said, 
and  then  added :  "But  I  can  see  you'll  be  down  here  fairly 
often,  so  I  shan't  hesitate  to  make  use  of  you." 

"I'll  come  whenever  I  can,"  Dickie  returned,  "but  I've 
got  some  work  on  hand  that's  taking  up  a  lot  of  my  time, 
and  I  have  to  look  after  the  pater,  a  certain  amount." 

Philip  Groome  smiled.  "You,  too,  have  your  moments  of 
deliberate  dishonesty,"  he  remarked. 

"Been  five  years  in  the  City,  you  know,"  Dickie  said. 

For  a  moment  the  two  men  looked  at  one  another  with  a 
perfect  understanding  of  the  thing  that  had  not  been  spoken 
between  them,  and  then  Groome  said: 

"Did  you  make  any  money?" 

"Not  very  much,"  Dickie  admitted. 

"But  you're  going  back,  I  suppose, — to  make  more?" 

"No,  I  shan't  go  back,"  Dickie  said.  "That  game  doesn't 
interest  me  any  longer." 

"The  alternative  being  .  .  .  ?" 

"Well,  that  I  don't  quite  know,"  Dickie  confessed.  "I 
think  I  may  be  able  to  get  a  job  at  the  Observatory;  as  a 
computer,  in  the  first  instance,  until  I've  taken  my  F.R.A.S. 
and  B.Sc." 

"Well  paid  job?"  Groome  asked. 

"Oh !  no,  I  shouldn't  get  more  than  a  hundred  and  fifty 
or  two  hundred  a  year,"  Dickie  said.  "But  I've  got  about 
five  hundred  a  year  of  my  own." 

"All  very  well  for  a  bachelor  of  inexpensive  tastes," 
commented  Groome. 

"Well,  that's  what  I  am,"  Dickie  said. 

He  had  seen  a  look  of  relief  in  Groome's  face  when  that 
statement  of  income  had  been  made.  He  was  ineligible,  and 
the  fact  had  pleased  the  invalid  father  who  looked  for  no 
sympathy  from  any  one  but  his  daughter.  But  he  had  also 
been  afraid,  and  Dickie  found  a  source  of  joy  in  that 
recognition.  It  seemed  to  suggest  the  possibility  that  Sibyl's 


416  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

persistent  snubbing  of  himself  was  not  an  expression  of 
her  real  feeling,  and  that  her  father  had  regarded  Dickie  as 
a  threat  to  his  comfort. 


in 

She  certainly  showed  herself  more  tolerant  than  Dickie 
had  yet  seen  her  when  she  returned,  this  time  by  the  ex- 
pected way  of  the  drawing-room  window.  She  had  dis- 
carded her  overall  and  discovered  a  simple  frock  of  green 
linen  that  maintained  the  new  girlishness  he  had  found  in 
her  that  afternoon.  But  while  they  were  having  tea  he 
realised  that  the  difference  of  effect  was  not  due  to  'her 
dress  but  to  her  hair.  The  elaborate  sculptured  coiffure  had 
given  place  to  what  the  expert  might  have  regarded  as  an 
amateur  makeshift  which,  if  it  concealed  the  shape  of  her 
head,  revealed  the  quality  of  the  beautiful  material  that  had 
gone  to  the  building  of  the  coronet  she  had  always  pre- 
viously worn. 

"Are  you  criticising  the  way  I  do  my  hair?"  she  asked 
at  the  moment  of  his  discovery. 

"I  was  noticing  the  difference  it  made  in  the  look  of 
you,"  he  admitted. 

"A  difference  for  the  worse,  of  course?"  she  said,  but 
her  tone  encouraged  him  to  say  what  was  in  his  mind. 

"It's  not  a  question  of  worse  or  better,"  he  said.  "But 
you  look  younger  with  it  done  that  way." 

"I  feel  younger,"  she  returned. 

"I  suppose  Connie's  maid  was  responsible  for  the  other 
erection  ?"  her  father  suggested. 

She  nodded.  "I  felt  so  delightfully  grown  up  all  the 
time  we  were  there,"  she  said,  addressing  her  father. 

"Didn't  make  you  any  better  tempered,"  he  returned. 

"That  was  one  of  the  things  that  was  so  nice  about  it," 
she  said.  "I  didn't  mind  how  bad  tempered  I  was.  I  felt 
it  didn't  matter.  Whenever  I  was  the  least  inclined  to  be 
sorry,  I  used  to  look  at  my  hair  in  the  glass,  and  tell  my- 


THE  MISSING  INDUCTION  417 

self  that  I  was  quite  grown  up,  and  could  do  anything  I 
liked.  Now  I'm  back  in  the  schoolroom,  and  I  feel  that  I 
must  be  a  good  little  girl  again.  This,"  she  thrust  her  fingers 
suddenly  into  the  loose  waves  of  hair  above  her  ears,  "this 
reminds  me  all  the  time  that  it's  my  duty  to  do  what  peo- 
ple tell  me." 

"And  you  don't  like  it  ?"  Dickie  asked. 

"To-day  I  do,"  she  said.  "It's  such  jolly  weather  and  I 
feel  good." 

"I  shall  keep  you  away  from  Connie's  maid  in  future," 
her  father  remarked. 

She  sat  still  for  a  moment  as  if  she  were  seriously  con- 
sidering that,  and  then  jumped  to  her  feet  and  said : 

"Suppose  we  push  you  all  round  the  garden,  dear." 


IV 

But  it  was  not  until  the  following  Sunday  that  she  came 
out  to  meet  Dickie  with  a  sudden  confidence  that  rear- 
ranged their  relations  and  brought  him  to  the  verge  of  that 
intimacy  which  might  ask  for  such  a  private  favour  as  the 
giving  of  a  sign. 

She  had  not  gone  to  church  in  the  morning,  but  when 
Dickie  was  down  at  Halton  House  in  the  afternoon,  she 
began  to  cross-examine  him  as  to  the  difference  between 
town  and  country  services. 

"You'd  better  come  and  see  for  yourself,"  he  suggested, 
and  Sibyl  looked  at  her  father  as  if  she  asked  his  permis- 
sion. 

"She's  been  brought  up  as  an  agnostic,"  Groome  ex- 
plained. "Connie's  the  only  one  of  our  family  who  has 
taken  up  religion.  She'd  take  up  anything.  But  Sibyl  has 
romantic  leanings.  She's  been  to  Farm  Street  and  the 
Carmelites,  now  and  again ;  and  the  Cathedral  appealed  to 
her.  She'd  go  oftener  only  she  thinks  I  don't  like  it." 

"Well,  you're  generally  rather  nasty  afterwards,"  she 
said. 


418  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"Merely  because  I've  missed  you  while  you've  been  away," 
her  father  returned.  "I  was  much  nastier  to  you  when 
you  took  the  whole  day  off  and  went  to  that  prize-giving  at 
Oakstone.  Oh!  I  know  it  was  Connie's  fault;  and  you 
were  uncommonly  nasty  to  me  when  you  came  back." 

"We  do  quarrel,  awfully,  sometimes,"  Sibyl  said  in  an 
aside  to  Dickie. 

"There  are  moments  when  Sibyl  and  I  hate  each  other," 
Groome  explained.  "It's  natural  that  we  should.  We  see 
too  much  of  one  another,  and  we  are  both  bad-tempered. 
Moreover,  as  you  have  perhaps  forgotten,  Sibyl  was  hav- 
ing her  hair  dressed  by  a  French  maid  at  that  time." 

"Well,  then,  I  can  go  to  church?"  she  said. 

"Lynneker  will  be  delighted  to  see  you  home,"  Groome 
replied.  "Better  ask  him  to  stay  to  dinner,  or  will  it  have 
to  be  supper  ?  You  won't  be  home  till  eight,  I  suppose  ?" 

"We'll  have  dinner  as  usual  and  call  it  supper,  dear," 
Sibyl  said.  "And  then  Mr.  Lynneker  won't  have  to  dress. 
You  wouldn't  like  to  go  to  church  in  evening  dress,  would 
you?"  she  asked  Dickie. 

"I  don't  think  I  should,"  he  admitted. 


The  service  was  not,  they  agreed,  a  great  success.  They 
approached  a  confidence  with  that  opening  before  they 
were  out  of  the  churchyard.  Mr.  Watson,  the  curate,  had 
no  ear  for  music  and  never  attempted  to  intone  the  re- 
sponses, and  as  Sibyl  put  it,  "it  was  all  distinctly  unin- 
spiring." 

Dickie  cordially  agreed.  He  had  sat  with  his  mother  and 
Eleanor  in  the  Rectory  pew  on  the  north  side  of  the  nave, 
in  front  of  the  whole  congregation,  and  unable  to  catch  the 
least  glimpse  of  Sibyl,  all  alone  in  the  expanses  of  the  Hal- 
ton  House  pew  in  the  south  aisle. 

And  their  common  experience  of  boredom  seemed  to  have 
influenced  Sibyl  to  treat  him  with  a  new  intimacy.  When  he 


THE  MISSING  INDUCTION  419 

suggested  that  they  should  go  up  the  "alley"  that  ran 
alongside  the  Rectory  garden  and  back  through  the  corn- 
field, she  assented  with  the  air  of  joining  him  in  an  exciting 
adventure. 

"Oh !  yes,  let's,"  she  said.     "I  don't  know  that  way." 

"That  big,  cold  church  and  that  dull,  cold  service  made 
me  feel  so  miserable,"  she  went  on,  after  they  had  climbed 
the  stile  and  were  walking  up  the  narrow  path  between 
the  paling  that  confined  the  Rectory  shrubbery  and  the  hedge 
of  the  glebe  farm.  "And  it  was  so  lonely  in  that  big,  cold 
pew."  She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  pretty  droop  of  her 
mouth,  the  pretended  discontent  of  a  child.  Her  grimace 
was  an  invitation  to  some  response  in  kind,  but  Dickie  was 
afraid  to  accept  it.  He  had  not  the  gift  of  banter,  even 
with  men. 

"I  know,"  he  said.  "It's  been  rotten  since  the  pater's  been 
ill.  That  chap,  Watson,  the  curate,  can't  intone." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Sibyl,  and  continued  after  a  moment's 
consideration:  "I  didn't  understand.  We  don't  know  any 
one  in  the  village  yet.  So  that  was  the  curate,  was  it?" 

"Did  you  think  it  was  the  pater?"  Dickie  asked. 

"Well,  how  could  I  tell?"  she  returned.  "However,  I 
won't  go  again  until  your  father's  better." 

"He'll  never  be  any  better,"  Dickie  said. 

They  had  come  out  of  the  half  darkness  of  the  tree- 
sheltered  alley  into  the  open  width  of  the  cornfield,  and  she 
could  see  his  face  clearly  in  the  early  twilight. 

"Is  he  a  permanent  invalid  like  my  father?"  she  asked 
with  a  charming  little  air  of  commiseration. 

"No,  he's  dying,"  Dickie  said.  "We've  known  it  for 
some  time  now.  There's  no  sort  of  hope  for  him." 

She  made  an  impulsive  gesture  with  her  hand  as  if  she 
would  comfort  him  with  a  touch. 

"Are  you  frightfully  miserable  about  it?"  she  asked  ten- 
derly. 

"Not  in  a  way,"  he  said,  "but  you  carry  the  thought  of  it 
about  with  you." 

"Oh !  I  know,"  she  agreed. 


420  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"You  feel  that  with  your  father?" 

"Yes;  he  might  live  for  ages,"  she  explained,  "and  he 
might  die  practically  any  time.  And  I  do  feel  a  beast 
sometimes  for  leaving  him,  because  he  might  die  when  I 
wasn't  there.  But,  really,  he'd  often  sooner  be  alone." 

"They  get  like  that,  invalids,  I  mean,  after  a  certain 
point,"  Dickie  said.  "Your  father  was  explaining  it  the 
other  day.  The  pater  never  speaks  now,  even  to  me,  and 
I'm  his  nurse  in  a  sort  of  way.  There's  hardly  anything 
one  can  do  for  him." 

He  looked  down  at  her  and  she  met  his  eyes  with  the 
frank  interest  of  friendship. 

"You've  been  helping  me  so  splendidly  with  my  invalid," 
she  said.  "He  has  been  so  much  better  tempered  since  we've 
been  here.  I  wish  I  could  help  you  with  yours." 

"You  do,"  Dickie  mumbled. 

"Do  I  really?    How?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

"I  don't  quite  know  how ;  you  do,"  he  said. 

They  had  come  to  the  gate  of  the  field  and  they  stood 
there  for  a  minute  or  two,  wonderfully  alone  together  in 
the  peace  of  the  August  evening. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you,"  she  began  hesitatingly,  after  a 
pause,  "I  thought  I  didn't  like  you  at  all  when  I  first  met 
you.  I — I  thought  you  were  stupid.  But  before  that,  at 
Oakstone,  you  know,  I'd  made  up  my  mind  that  you  were 
the  sort  of  person  I  particularly  disliked.  Do  you  mind  my 
saying  this  ?" ' 

"Where  did  you  see  me  at  Oakstone  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  saw  you  in  the  hall  first,  and  then  afterwards  talking 
to  a  rather  horrid-looking  little  man  at  lunch." 

"Ellis,  the  novelist." 

"Was  it?  I've  heard  of  him.  Well,  it  was  rather  odd, 
wasn't  it,  that  I  should  have  noticed  you  particularly,  al- 
though I  often  do  notice  people  like  that,  and  try  to  de- 
cide whether  I  should  like  them  or  not.  Don't  you?" 

Dickie  shook  his  head.  "No,  not  like  that,"  he  said. 
"But  why  have  you  changed  your  mind  about  me?  You 
have,  haven't  you?" 


THE  MISSING  INDUCTION 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  found  out  that  I  was  wrong  to  a  cer- 
tain extent,"  she  confessed,  still  with  the  same  unconscious 
air  of  discussing  an  abstract  question.  "But  the  first  two  or 
three  times  I  met  you  properly  to  talk  to,  I  thought  I'd  been 
quite  right  in  putting  you  down  as  rather  stupid  and  awfully 
self-opinionated.  Don't  you  think  you  are  a  little  self- 
opinionated  ?" 

"Other  people  have  said  so,  too,"  Dickie  admitted. 

"You  walk  over  people  so,"  she  remonstrated. 

"Yes,  I've  had  to,"  Dickie  said.  "My  brothers  and  all 
my  family  are  so  frightfully  the  other  way." 

"Oh !  yes,  Canon  Lynneker  is  your  brother,  isn't  he  ?" 
she  commented  thoughtfully. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  be  more  like  him?"  Dickie  asked. 

The  light  was  rapidly  failing  now  and  he  leaned  a  little 
towards  her  as  he  spoke.  He  wanted  to  be  in  touch  with 
her  through  every  contact  of  the  senses.  He  was  afraid 
of  losing  sight  of  that  new  expression  of  confidence  which 
had  lighted  her  face  that  evening  and  reawakened  in  him 
his  original  certainty  of  some  old  experience  between  them. 
The  half-darkness  had  transfigured  her.  She  was  no  longer 
the  beautiful  woman  he  had  admired  at  Oakstone  or  Med- 
borough,  an  aesthetically  charming  triumph  of  physical  con- 
tours, but  the  incarnation  of  some  primitive  response  to 
all  the  desire  of  his  life.  For  that  moment,  at  least,  she 
was  a  realised  ideal,  sexless,  but  utterly  beautiful ;  the 
satisfaction  of  every  ambition.  And  he  wanted,  with  an 
immense  concentration  of  his  will,  to  please  and  to  hold 
her. 

She  held  his  stare  without  a  flicker  of  self-consciousness. 

"Would  you  try  to  be  like  your  brother  to  please  me?" 
she  asked. 

"No,"  Dickie  said  resolutely. 

She  drew  in  her  breath  with  a  little  sharp  sigh,  and  turned 
her  face  away  from  him. 

"You  will  make  me  so  afraid  of  you,"  she  said. 

He  leaned  his  arms  on  the  top  bar  of  the  gate  and  stared 
out,  suddenly  moody,  over  the  slope  of  the  opposite  hill. 


THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"I  don't  see  why,"  he  said. 

"You're  so  hard,"  she  returned. 

"How  could  I  be  like  my  brother?"  he  asked. 

"I  should  hate  you  to  be  like  him,"  she  said  vehemently, 
"but  you  might  have  said  you'd  try,  to  please  me.  I  thought 
we  were  going  to  be  friends." 

"Well,  can't  we?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  should  want  to  be,"  she  said.  "I 
don't  see  why  you  should  want  to  be  friends  with  any  one. 
You're  so  sure  of  yourself." 

"Does  that  make  you  dislike  me?" 

"Sometimes." 

"I  don't  see  how  I  can  help  it,"  he  submitted. 

"Well,  then,  how  can  we  be  friends?" 

"Why  not?" 

"You  said  just  now  that  I  helped  you  when  you  were 
nursing  your  father,  but  I  don't  help  you  at  all ;  no  one  can. 
And  we  can't  be  friends  if  you  have  got  everything  you 
want;  don't  you  see  what  I  mean?" 

Dimly  he  did  see.  She  was  asking  for  a  sign  of  their 
equality.  She  could  not  be  content  unless  she  could  find 
some  lack  in  him,  and  she  looked  for  a  submission  to 
her  help. 

"I  haven't  got  everything  I  want,"  he  said.  "I  want 
your  friendship,  tremendously,  and  you  won't  give  it  to 
me.  I've  wanted  it  ever  since  I  saw  you  on  the  platform 
at  Oakstone." 

"You  must  beg  for  it,  then,"  she  said. 

"I  am  begging,  now,"  he  replied. 

"Humbly?" 

"Very  humbly." 

"Why  do  you  want  it?" 

"I  don't  know  why,"  he  confessed;  "but  I  do,  tremen- 
dously." 

She  laughed,  a  little  laugh  of  self-congratulation,  and 
held  out  her  hand  to  him.  "We  can  be  friends  over  our 
invalids,  in  any  case,  can't  we?"  she  said.  "It's  nice  to 


THE  MISSING  INDUCTION  423 

feel  that  we're  in  the  same  boat,  there.  And,  I  say,  whatever 
is  the  time?  My  invalid  will  be  in  an  awful  temper." 

"It's  barely  half-past  eight,"  Dickie  said.  He  had  taken 
her  hand  and  was  still  holding  it. 

"We  must  run,"  she  urged  him. 

They  ran  down  the  lane  hand  in  hand. 

"We  are  being  friends,  I  think,"  she  said  shyly  as  they 
entered  the  garden. 

"Rather,"  Dickie  agreed. 


VI 

But  the  next  day,  although  she  was  still  without  the 
services  of  a  maid,  she  returned  unexpectedly  to  her  air 
of  social  efficiency;  snubbing  Dickie  politely  with  precisely 
the  same  manner  she  had  worn  at  their  first  meeting. 

And  after  that  vision  he  had  had  of  her  last  night,  the 
effect  upon  him  was  curiously  stimulating.  In  the  garden, 
that  afternoon,  he  realised  for  the  first  time  something 
of  the  naked  desire  that  Ellis  had  exhibited  at  the  school 
luncheon  table.  And  the  realisation  no  longer  shocked  him. 
Her  antagonism  had  roused  in  him  the  lust  for  conquest. 
He  wanted  to  be  cruel;  he  wanted  to  put  his  arms  about 
her  and  crush  her  pride  and  resistance. 

If  the  opportunity  had  been  denied  him,  that  desire  might 
have  increased  and  conquered  him,  but  her  father  unex- 
pectedly gave  them  the  chance  to  be  alone. 

Philip  Groome  had  made  no  complaint  of  their  lateness 
on  the  previous  evening,  accepting  Sibyl's  not  too  truthful 
excuses  with  quiet  reassurances  of  his  ability  both  to  enter- 
tain himself  during  her  absence  and  to  wait  an  extra  half- 
hour  for  dinner. 

"For  some  reason  I  am  disinclined  to  quarrel  with  you 
to-night,  Sibyl,"  he  had  said.  "The  delightful  freedom  of 
our  relations  permits  every  kind  of  exception  to  our  ordi- 
nary rules."  And  he  had  given  neither  of  them  the  least 
cause  to  feel  conscious  of  having  neglected  him. 


THESE  LYNNEKERS 

This  afternoon  he  was  less  complacent. 

"I'm  afraid  it  must  bore  you  to  come  here  so  often, 
Lynneker,"  he  said,  as  they  were  having  tea.  "I  appreciate 
your  goodness  in  wasting  time  trying  to  amuse  me,  but 
I  don't  want  you  to  make  it  an  effort." 

"Which  means  that  I'm  boring  yon''  Dickie  replied. 

"I  daresay,"  Groome  said,  and  then  added  cryptically, 
"You'll  be  all  right  again,  no  doubt,  when  the  crisis  is 
over." 

Dickie  did  not  follow  that ;  he  believed  the  reference  was 
to  his  father's  illness.  "It  can't  be  very  long,  now,"  he 
said. 

"Indeed?"  Groome  commented,  and  looked  at  his  daugh- 
ter with  a  wry  smile. 

"He  has  taken  nothing  but  water  the  last  two  days," 
Dickie  explained. 

Groome's  bitterness  vanished  at  once.  "Of  course,"  he 
said,  as  if  he  were  addressing  himself  rather  than  his 
companion.  "In  our  little  world,  you  see,  Lynneker,"  he 
went  on,  "we  have  no  thought  even  for  the  exigencies  of 
our  brother  invalids.  In  fact,  they  are  our  chief  rivals." 

"No  rivalry  in  this  case,"  Dickie  said.  "My  father  de- 
mands no  attention  except  two  visits  of  five  minutes  each 
from  me,  every  day." 

Groome  waved  his  thin,  white  hand  with  a  gesture  of 
dismissal.  "You  are  answered  by  your  own  dulness  of 
apprehension,  this  afternoon,"  he  said.  "It  isn't  your  in- 
fernal coddling  we  want,  it's  your  thoughts ;  and  you've 
misunderstood  me  at  least  twice  in  the  last  minute.  Take 
him  away,  Sibyl,  there's  a  good  daughter.  I  can  do  with- 
out either  of  you,  just  now.  You  both  bore  me." 

Sibyl  got  up  at  once.  "I'll  come  with  you  as  far  as 
the  paddock,"  she  said. 

"I'm  definitely  dismissed,  eh?"  Dickie  asked. 

"Only  until  you've  recovered  your  wits,"  Groome  returned 
with  a  friendly  smile.  .  .  . 

"He's  really  kinder  to  you  than  you  deserve,"  Sibyl  said 


THE  MISSING  INDUCTION  425 

to  Dickie  when  they  were  out  of  hearing  of  the  terrace. 
She  spoke  sharply,  as  with  the  authority  of  a  nurse. 

"Your  fault,"  Dickie  said  gloomily. 

"Mine?  Why?"  she  asked  in  the  same  tone  of  offended 
patronage. 

He  glanced  at  her  hair.  "It  isn't  only  when  you  look 
superior  that  you  feel  like  that,  I  suppose?"  he  sug- 
gested. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said,  knowing  per- 
fectly well. 

"I  thought  we  were  going  to  be  friends,"  he  returned. 

"I  don't  know  that  that's  possible,"  was  the  answer,  and 
then,  in  reply  to  his  inevitable  "Why  not?"  she  went  on, 
"I  must  think  of  father,  first.  I  can't  give  up  my  thoughts 
to  you.  He  wants  them.  He  has  been  missing  me  since 
last  night.  That  was  why  he  was  so  peevish  this  after- 
noon." 

Dickie  realised  the  admission  that  was  implicit  in  her 
statement,  and,  if  he  wanted  much  more  than  a  mere 
understanding  that  in  certain  circumstances  a  friendship 
was  possible  between  them,  he  was  for  the  moment  con- 
tent to  accept  her  explanation. 

"Yes,  that's  all  right,  of  course,"  he  said.  "I  under- 
stand that.  But  I  think  you  might  credit  me  with  a  little 
more  power  of  comprehension,  even  if  I  was  a  bit  pre- 
occupied this  afternoon." 

"Preoccupied!"  she  commented  with  a  tiny  sniff  of  con- 
tempt. 

"Yes,  preoccupied,"  Dickie  asserted  firmly.  "But  I  see, 
now,  perfectly  well  what  your  father  meant  about  a  'crisis.' 
I  admit  I  didn't  follow  him  at  the  time." 

"Well,"  she  prompted  him,  preferring  to  evade  that 
issue. 

"Well,  I  don't  think  you  need  use  quite  such  feminine, 
roundabout  methods  with  me,"  Dickie  went  on.  "I'm  quite 
capable  of  appreciating  the  situation,  and  there's  no  need 
for  you  to  put  on  that  awful  air  of  the  society  young  woman 


426  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

and  try  to  snub  me.  You  didn't  really  bring  it  off,  you 
know." 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him,  then,  with  something  of 
appeal  in  her  face.  "Well,  if  I  don't,  you'll  be  friendly, 
as  you're  being,  now,"  she  said. 

"Couldn't  you  afford  that  without  taking  too  much 
from  your  father?"  he  asked. 

She  wrinkled  her  forehead  in  a  girlish  frown.  "If  you'd 
stop  at  that,"  she  said,  "but  you  won't.  You'll  be  wanting 
all  my  thoughts  before  I  know  where  I  am." 

"I  suppose  that's  what  hefs  afraid  of,"  Dickie  added. 

"Of  course,"  she  said. 

For  a  few  moments  they  stood  still  and  looked  at  one 
another  with  frank  perplexity;  then  Dickie  said, 

"But  nothing  will  alter  the  fact  that  we  are  friends, 
will  it?" 

"I  suppose  not,"  she  agreed. 

"And  pretending  we  aren't  won't  help,  will  it?"  he 
went  on. 

She  shook  her  head  despairingly. 

"I  don't  see  what's  to  be  done  about  it,"  she  confessed. 

They  had  come  to  the  entrance  of  the  kitchen  garden 
when  they  stopped  to  debate  this  immense  difficulty,  and 
Dickie  felt  that  it  could  not  be  solved  in  so  open  and  public 
a  place. 

"I  think  I'll  go  out  by  the  top-gate,"  he  said.  "Will  you 
come  with  me  as  far  as  that?  I  shall  go  for  a  walk.  It 
helps  me  to  think." 

She  assented  without  speaking  and  they  climbed  in 
silence  up  through  the  long  stretch  of  almost  uncultivated 
garden  that  was  known  as  "the  wilderness."  Indeed,  they 
did  not  speak  again  until  they  had  reached  the  path  through 
the  wide  shrubbery  that  led  to  the  little  green  door  in  the 
high  wall  that  so  efficiently  shut  off  the  garden  from  the 
road.  Up  there,  they  might  have  been  alone  in  some 
deep  wood. 

"Well,  what's  to  be  done?"  Dickie  asked  at  last. 


THE  MISSING  INDUCTION  427 

"I'm  afraid  we  shall  have  to  stop  being  friends,"  she 
acknowledged  wistfully. 

"If  we  can." 

"We  mustn't  think  about  each  other,"  she  said. 

"But  if  it  weren't  for  your  father,  we  should  be  friends, 
shouldn't  we?"  Dickie  persisted. 

"Yes.     I  like  you,  now,"  she  said,  simply. 

"Very  much  ?" 

"Yes."  She  paused  a  moment  before  she  added,  "I 
think  I  was  afraid  of  liking  you  from  the  very  begin- 
ning." 

"I  wasn't  afraid.     I  did,"  Dickie  said. 

"Like  me?"  she  asked. 

"Love  you,"  he  said. 

They  stood  facing  each  other  a  yard  apart,  but  he  made 
no  movement  to  touch  her.  The  colour  had  flamed  to 
her  cheeks  as  he  uttered  the  new  word,  but  she  still  looked 
up  into  his  eyes  with  a  beautiful,  serene  confidence  and 
understanding,  and  he  found  himself  compelled  to  go  on 
speaking  lest  their  sympathy  should  break  and  give  way 
to  embarrassment. 

"I've  never  cared  for  any  one  at  all  like  this  before,"  he 
said.  "I  never  thought  I  should." 

"I  always  thought  I  should,  but  I  never  have,  before, 
either,"  she  returned. 

"But  you  do,  now?" 

"What?"  she  asked. 

"Love  me,"  he  said. 

She  nodded  and  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  "I  didn't 
know  till  last  night,"  she  said  steadily.  And  then  suddenly 
she  came  close  to  him  and  put  her  face  up  to  his.  They 
were  both  trembling  as  he  put  his  arms  round  her  and 
kissed  her  on  the  lips;  and  her  tears  overflowed  and  ran 
down  her  cheeks. 

Then,  in  a  moment,  her  mood  changed,  and  she  released 
herself  with  a  touch  of  petulance. 

"Oh!  but  it  isn't  any  good  to  go  on  like  this,"  she  said 
as  if  she  blamed  herself  rather  than  him  for  all  the  devastat- 


428  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

ing  things  that  had  been  said  and  done.  "I  ought  not  to 
have  let  you  say  that.  It's  no  good,  you  know  it  isn't.  I 
can't  give  up  father  for  you.  I  don't  want  to.  It  hurts 
me  horribly,  now,  to  feel  that  I  haven't  been  faithful  to 
him." 

"But  that's  so  different,"  Dickie  began. 

"It  isn't,"  she  said.  "You're  nothing  to  me,  really.  I 
don't  want  to  see  you  again.  You  mustn't  come  down  here 
any  more." 

"I  shall,"  Dickie  replied.  He  did  not  look  at  her  as  he 
spoke,  and  his  voice  was  so  low  that  she  could  hardly  hear 
him,  but  some  expression  of  immense  resolution  about  his 
whole  pose  seemed  to  shake  her  confidence. 

"Well,  not  to-morrow,  anyway,"  she  said  with  a  sud- 
den change  from  the  absolute  to  the  relative  that  would 
have  been  ridiculous  if  she  hadn't  been  so  deeply  affected 
and  so  earnest. 

"On  Thursday  afternoon  I'm  going  in  to  Medborough  to 
meet  my  sister  from  Canada,"  he  submitted. 

"Oh!  you'd  better  not  come  again,  at  all,"  she  returned 
with  another  accession  of  confidence.  "And,  certainly, 
you  must  not  come  to-morrow.  I  must  have  time  to  think 
it  all  over.  I'm  not  sure  whether  I  like  you  or  not.  You 
must  give  me  time." 

"But  then  I  shan't  see  you  again  until  Friday,"  he 
argued. 

"No,  perhaps  not  then,"  she  said. 

"Oh !  I  simply  must,"  pleaded  Dickie. 

She  appeared,  then,  to  be  a  little  sorry  for  him.  "What 
time  shall  you  be  going  in  to  Medborough  on  Thursday?" 
she  asked. 

"About  half  past  two,"  he  told  her. 

"Well,  you  must  give  me  until  then  to  think  it  all  over," 
she  said;  "and  if  I  decide  that  you  may  come  down  on 
Friday,  I'll  wave  to  you  as  you  pass." 

"I  shall  probably  be  coming  back  about  four,"  he  sug- 
gested, "if  you  miss  me  as  I  go  in." 

"Very  well;  good-bye,"  she  said. 


THE  MISSING  INDUCTION  429 

She  did  not  look  at  him  again,  but  turned  quickly  and 
ran  across  the  rough  lawn,  making  a  straight  line  back 
for  the  house.  He  watched  her  till  she  was  hidden  from 
him  by  a  great  clump  of  laurel,  waiting,  in  the  vain  hope 
that  she  might,  perhaps,  wave  him  a  last  encouragement. 


VII 

And  on  Thursday  no  sign  was  given  to  him,  nor  could 
he  deceive  himself  with  the  hope  that  he  might  have  missed 
seeing  her.  There  was  only  one  place  on  the  wall  from 
which  she  could  have  signalled,  the  place  where  at  the 
drop  of  the  hill  the  road  had  been  driven  through  a  cutting, 
and  the  ground  inside  the  garden  rose  to  within  four 
feet  of  the  coping.  Dickie  had  played  hide-and-seek  in 
those  gardens  when  he  was  a  boy,  and  knew  all  their  pos- 
sibilities; and,  in  any  case,  as  Adela's  comment  on  his 
distraction  implied,  he  had  run  no  risks.  If  she  had  waved 
to  him,  he  must  have  seen  her. 

The  contemplation  of  what  he  should  do  next  seriously 
interfered  between  him  and  his  work  on  Friday  morn- 
ing. He  had  mastered  the  theory  of  the  calculations  Levin- 
son  had  sent  him,  and  had  completed  the  mechanical  if  ardu- 
ous work  of  checking  the  workings  and  results.  But,  al- 
though he  was  not  less  suspicious  than  his  friend  of  the 
answer  returned  by  the  perfectly  accurate  manipulation 
of  the  actual  figures,  he  had  been  unable  so  far  to  find  the 
flaw  in  the  logic  of  any  induction  by  which  the  data  for 
calculation  were  arrived  at.  And  to  trace  that  error  he 
must  preserve  a  clear  and  undisturbed  mind. 

He  wondered  for  a  time  if  he  had  not  again  reached 
the  boundary  of  his  old  limitation ;  if  the  problem  now  be- 
fore him  was  not  just  beyond  the  scope  of  his  ability;  but 
his  continued  sense  of  being  on  the  verge  of  a  solution 
seemed  to  deny  that  possibility.  In  the  old  days  when  he 
had  reached  his  limit  he  was  aware  only  of  a  sense  of  baf- 
flement, of  struggling  against  unassailable  barriers. 


430  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

'Til  go  down  there  this  afternoon,"  he  decided.  "I  shall 
never  get  this  done  until  .  .  .  until  something's  settled." 

And,  indeed,  his  visit  to  Halton  House  that  afternoon 
did  produce  a  temporary  settlement  of  some  kind,  if  it 
was  other  than  the  one  he  had  expected  and  hoped  for. 

Philip  Groome's  wheeled  chair  was  not  on  the  gravel  path 
before  the  house  when  Dickie  entered  the  garden,  with  a 
touch  of  unusual  ceremony,  by  the  front  gates.  The  house 
and  the  lawn  looked,  he  thought,  suddenly  blank  and  de- 
serted ;  he  had  become  so  accustomed  to  certain  indications 
of  the  Groome's  life  there;  and  to-day,  even  the  French 
window  of  the  drawing-room  was  shut. 

He  rang  the  bell  with  an  uncomfortable  feeling  of  ner- 
vousness that  was  new  to  him.  He  had  never  before  been  so 
aware  of  intruding  himself  where  he  might  not  be  wanted. 

The  man,  Philip  Groome's  own  attendant,  who  opened 
the  door,  confirmed  his  worst  apprehensions. 

"Mr.  Groome  has  not  been  so  well,  sir,  the  last  two  days," 
the  man  said.  "He  told  me  to  say,  if  you  called,  that  he 
was  sorry  he  might  not  be  able  to  see  you  again  just  at 
present." 

"And  Miss  Groome  .  .  ."  Dickie  began. 

"Is  with  her  father,  sir,"  was  the  uncompromising  an- 
swer. 

Dickie  went  out  again  by  way  of  the  front  gates. 

He  had  received  the  dismissal  that  Philip  Groome  had 
forewarned  him  might  one  day  be  given.  "When  you're 
greeted  by  the  formula  that  I'm  not  up  to  receiving  visitors, 
you  can  draw  your  own  conclusions,"  Groome  had 
said.  .  .  . 

For  half-an-hour  or  so  Dickie  experienced  all  the  emo- 
tions that  he  had  observed  years  ago  in  his  elder  brother. 
He  was  full  of  rash  plans :  to  force  an  entrance  by  calling 
every  day ;  to  hang  about  the  village  in  the  hope  of  meeting 
Sibyl;  to  write  an  immensely  argumentative  letter  to  her. 
Or,  with  horrible  reactions  that  did  full  justice  to  the 
Lynneker  strain  that  had  so  far  been  hardly  perceptible 


THE  MISSING  INDUCTION  431 

in  him,  to  resign  himself  to  misery,  to  emigrate,  to  do  any- 
thing hopelessly  emotional  and  useless. 

The  little  ebullition  of  the  Lynneker  strain  bubbled  furi- 
ously for  half  an  hour,  and  then  boiled  itself  harmlessly 
away. 

He  had  turned  to  the  left  when  he  came  out  of  the  Halton 
House  grounds,  and  he  found  himself  in  the  Grinling  woods, 
when  his  own  personality  rose  up  and  finally  reasserted  it- 
self. He  saw  then,  with  a  clearness  that  he  had  not  so 
far  been  able  to  bring  to  his  mathematical  problem,  a  reason- 
able and  characteristic  line  of  action. 

He  would  make  no  further  attempt  to  see  Sibyl,  but  he 
would  give  himself  time,  he  decided.  He  would  return, 
as  he  believed  he  undoubtedly  could  return,  to  the  solution 
of  his  personal  problems,  to  Levinson's  calculations,  to 
his  consideration  of  the  Oakstone  education  scheme,  and 
to  the  thought  of  his  future,  when  this  terrible  aching 
process  of  his  father's  illness  was  resolved  by  its  only 
possible  termination. 

He  wrote  to  Moseley  the  same  evening  and  asked  him  if 
he  were  prepared  to  fulfil  that  promised  engagement  to 
exhibit  the  Oakstone  shops  and  expound  the  theory  of  Oak- 
stone's  future  development. 

In  his  own  mind  Dickie  fixed  no  particular  limit  to  this 
period  of  waiting  he  had  prescribed  for  himself,  but  he 
knew  that  he  would  not  leave  Halton  before  he  had  seen 
Sibyl  again. 

And  deep  down  in  some  inspiring  depths  of  his  con- 
sciousness he  knew  that  he  could  trust  her  indefinitely. 
They  were  friends  and  lovers.  It  was  incredible  that  either 
of  them  could  love  elsewhere,  even  though  they  might 
never  meet  again. 

It  was  that  knowledge  that  permitted  him  to  devote  him- 
self to  the  search  for  that  false  induction.  .  .  . 

He  found  it,  oddly  enough,  a  week  later,  while  he  was 
talking  to  Moseley,  in  the  engineering  shop  at  Oakstone. 
Perhaps  it  might  be  said  more  accurately  that  the  solution 
found  Dickie.  It  was  as  if  the  answer  he  sought  had  been 


432  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

clamouring  for  an  outlet  through  the  intricate  contortions 
of  his  objective  consciousness,  and  broke  out  suddenly  into 
the  daylight  while  his  attention  was  being  entirely  devoted 
to  another  subject. 

Moseley  noticed  the  light  that  so  unexpectedly  broke  over 
his  companion's  expression,  and  being  unable  to  account 
for  it  by  any  brilliancy  of  his  own  exposition,  said, 

"You  look  as  if  you  had  unexpectedly  remembered  some- 
thing, Lynneker,  but  I  can't  flatter  myself  that  it  has  any- 
thing to  do  with  what  I've  been  saying." 

"Not  remembered — found,"  Dickie  explained,  and  he  was 
so  full  of  his  discovery  that  he  had  to  make  a  demonstra- 
tion on  the  spot. 

Moseley  was  a  fair  mathematician  and  gathered  the  es- 
sentials of  the  process. 

"What  are  you  doing  now?"  he  asked  Dickie  later  in 
the  day. 

"Nothing  at  present,"  Dickie  said. 

"You  are  so  absolutely  the  man  I  want  here  for  a  mathe- 
matical master,"  Moseley  returned.  "Is  it  at  all  con- 
ceivable .  .  ." 

And  just  at  that  time  the  proposition  seemed  by  no  means 
an  unattractive  one  to  Dickie.  .  .  . 

He  received  another  offer  within  five  days  to  weigh 
against  it. 

The  delighted  Levinson  had  reported  Dickie's  achievement 
to  the  Astronomer  Royal,  and  when  he  wrote  was  able  to 
say  quite  definitely  that  a  berth  as  assistant  was  open  to 
Dickie  at  any  time,  with  a  salary  beginning  at  £400  a  year. 
Meanwhile  Mr.  Levinson  besought  his  friend  Lynneker's 
help  with  a  further  batch  of  calculations. 

Dickie  saw  that  it  was  time  he  decided  that  pressing 
question  of  his  future;  but  one  necessary  factor  for  the 
making  of  a  decision  was  still  uncertain.  He  had  received, 
as  yet,  no  word  from  Sibyl  or  her  father.  They  had  shut 
themselves  up  within  the  ample  enclosure  of  their  house 
and  garden  and  were  as  far  separated  from  the  village  life 
of  Halton  as  if  they  had  been  in  another  country. 


THE  MISSING  INDUCTION  433 


VIII 

Mrs.  Lynneker  suffered  increasing  distress  on  Dickie's 
behalf  as  the  days  went  by.  He  had  always  been  a  prodigy, 
doing  unaccountable  and  unexpected  things  without  ask- 
ing for  comment  or  commendation,  but  at  the  outset  of 
his  love  affair  he  had  begun  to  exhibit  symptoms  which 
she  had  welcomed  as  evidence  of  what  seemed  to  her  an 
entirely  desirable  normality.  And  then  he  had  shut  her 
out  from  any  delightful  confidence;  while,  now,  so  far  as 
she  could  judge,  the  affair  was  completely  over  and  she 
had  no  sort  of  clue  as  to  whether  the  initiative  had  been 
his  or  Miss  Groome's.  If  he  had  been  "refused,"  his 
mother  thought  that  he  should  at  least  betray  some  sign 
of  the  forlorn  lover. 

She  had  talked  it  all  over  at  great  length  with  Adela, 
and  suggested  that  her  daughter  should  "ask  him  about 
it."  Mrs.  Lynneker  confessed  that  she  hesitated  to  say 
anything  herself.  "He  is  so  independent,"  she  said,  "but 
you  were  always  such  great  friends." 

"He  seems  to  be  just  as  Dickeyish  as  ever,"  was  Adela's 
contribution;  but  her  attempt  to  pump  her  brother  was 
quite  unsuccessful. 

"He  only  grinned  and  said  that  we  had  imagined  the 
whole  thing,"  she  reported. 

"We  ought  to  call,  you  know,  dear,"  her  mother  said, 
putting  the  affair  from  another  point  of  view;  "either  you 
or  Eleanor,  and  I.  I  suppose  it  ought  to  be  Eleanor,"  she 
noted  in  a  regretful  parenthesis,  and  then  continued,  "but 
I  don't  like  to  go  without  saying  anything  about  it  to 
Dick." 

"Well,  you  might  ask  him  about  that,"  Adela  suggested. 

"Yes,  really,  I  think  I  ought"  Mrs.  Lynneker  replied 
hopefully;  and  the  same  afternoon  she  found  an  oppor- 
tunity and  summoned  all  her  resolutions  to  the  task. 

Dickie  was  alone  under  the  apple  tree  on  the  back  lawn, 


434  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

and  she  held  him  by  carrying  out  a  chair  and  planting  it 
beside  him. 

"I  have  so  wanted  to  have  a  little  talk  with  you,  dear," 
she  said  nervously,  committing  herself  as  irrevocably  as 
she  could  for  fear  she  should  be  tempted  to  equivocate. 

"All  serene,  mater,"  Dickie  agreed  and  smiled  his  en- 
couragement. 

"It's  about  our  calling  on  the  Groomes,"  she  said. 

"It  wouldn't  be  the  least  use,"  Dickie  replied  promptly. 
Edward,  in  the  true  Lynneker  spirit,  would  have  leapt  at 
the  chance  of  sending  his  mother  as  an  emissary,  or  per- 
haps as  a  scout. 

"Is  it  ...  is  it  ...  all  ...  off,  dear  ?"  his  mother  ven- 
tured timorously. 

Dickie  did  not  pretend  to  misunderstand  her.  "No," 
he  said.  "I'm  only  waiting." 

"For  what  ?"  Mrs.  Lynneker  asked. 

"For  things  generally  to  rearrange  themselves,"  he  said, 
vaguely. 

She  puzzled  over  that  for  a  moment  and  guessed  some- 
thing of  his  intention.  "But,  Dick,"  she  persisted,  "is  there 
any  sort  of  understanding  between  you  and  her  ?" 

"Yes." 

"But  you  told  Adela  we  had  imagined  it  all,"  she  re- 
monstrated. 

Dickie  frowned.     "That  wasn't  true,"  he  said. 

"But  why  .  .  ."  she  began. 

"Because  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it,  even  to  you, 
mater,"  Dickie  said.  "I've  got  a  horror  of  the  way  Edward 
used  to  go  on.  He  was  never  in  love,  you  know ;  he  never 
coulc1  be." 

"D.  ;k !"  his  mother  protested  in  horror.  "You  don't 
mean  that  he  and  Helen  are  not  happy?" 

"I  daresay  they're  happy  enough  in  their  way,"  he  said. 
"They  get  on  well  enough,  I  suppose,  just  as  most  mar- 
ried people  do,  like  Latimer,  I  suppose,  and  Martyn,  and 
.  .  ."  he  looked  at  her  steadily  as  he  concluded  his  parallel, 
"and  as  you  and  the  pater  did." 


THE  MISSING  INDUCTION  435 

She  winced  slightly  and  pressed  her  lips  into  a  thin 
line,  but  she  made  no  attempt  at  denial. 

"It's  our  fault,  you  know,"  Dickie  continued,  "we  Lyn- 
nekers/I  mean.  We've  got  some  decent  qualities,  but  we're 
vain,  and  weak  and  sentimental.  We  don't  make  good  hus- 
bands. We  expect  such  a  lot  from  our  wives  and  they 
see  through  us  and  we  aren't  worth  it." 

"But  you  aren't  like  that,  dear,"  she  interrupted  him. 

"No,  I'm  not,"  he  said  without  hesitation.  "And  so 
you  mustn't  expect  me  to  be  like  Edward,  now,  mater.  I'm 
not  going  to  make  an  emotional  spectacle  of  myself  in 
order  to  get  pity  or  admiration.  I  don't  know  that  there 
will  ever  be  an  engagement  between  Miss  Groome  and  me. 
But  even  if  there  was,  I  don't  want  it  all  sentimentalised 
and  .  .  .  and  pawed  about,  if  you  know  what  I  mean. 
I'm  being  a  beast,  I  know,  but  you  must  understand." 

He  paused  a  moment,  trying  to  collect  his  impressions 
into  one  clear  statement  and  then  said,  "I  hate  the  business 
of  marriage.  I  would  never  be  married  in  a  church.  I 
would  much  sooner  have  no  ceremony  of  any  kind.  No 
third  person  has  any  concern  in  our  vows.  If  they're  the 
proper  kind  of  vows,  they  don't  need  to  be  witnessed." 

"But,  Dick  .  .  ."  Mrs.  Lynneker  exclaimed  in  great  dis- 
tress. 

"Oh!   Can't  you  understand,  mater?"  he  implored  her. 

She  did  not.  She  never  could.  In  his  whole  family, 
every  man  and  woman  who  bore  the  name  of  Lynneker, 
there  was  not  one  who  could  have  understood  him. 

"Is  there  any  .  .  .  any  obstacle  .  .  ."  Mrs.  Lynneker  be- 
gan apprehensively. 

"The  greatest  possible,"  he  returned.  "My  own  filing 
about  it."  oi 

The  resolution  of  all  his  vague  shrinkings  and  distastes 
had  come  to  him  as  he  had  been  speaking;  thrust  up  from 
his  subconsciousness,  even  as  the  answer  to  his  mathe- 
matical problem  had  also  been  suddenly  presented,  clear 
and  undeniable.  He  saw  in  one  unanticipated,  unsought 
flash  of  vision,  that  love  alone,  in  all  its  aspects,  was  clear 


436  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

and  beautiful  until  it  was  soiled  by  the  regard  of  some 
one  from  without.  His  own  mother's  curiosity  could  soil 
it.  There  was  not  conceivably  any  third  person  who  could 
come  so  near  understanding  as  to  touch  that  sacred  func- 
tion in  thought,  without  altering  the  relation  of  the  two  per- 
sons who  alone  were  concerned  in  it.  No  outsider  could 
ever  enter  their  absolute. 

And  with  that  illumination  came  a  sense  that  Sibyl,  too, 
must  have  come  to  the  same  realisation,  and  that  he  would 
see  her  again  within  a  few  hours.  He  felt  suddenly  strong 
and  uplifted,  full  of  certainty  that  his  long  waiting  would 
soon  be  determined. 

He  left  his  mother  drooping  and  perplexed  under  the 
apple  tree,  and  went  up  to  the  wall  under  the  elm,  to  stare 
out,  as  he  had  stared  many  times  during  the  past  three 
weeks,  at  the  sloping  grounds  of  Halton  House.  He  could 
see  no  sign  of  life,  either  in  the  kitchen  garden  that  was 
hung  out  so  nakedly  on  the  fall  of  the  hill,  nor  in  the 
glimpses  of  lawn  and  flower-bed,  that  shone  between  the 
trees  around  the  house.  But  he  decided  that  he  would 
wait  no  longer,  that  that  evening  he  would  adventure  into 
those  gardens  without  invitation.  He  was  warm  with  a 
new  certainty  that  Sibyl  would  be  there,  expecting  him, 
eager  to  welcome  him. 


XVIII 
THE  TWO  SACRAMENTS 


HE  made  no  excuse  to  his  mother  and  sisters  for  not 
joining  them  in  the  drawing-room  after  supper.  It 
was  just  eight  o'clock  when  he  left  the  house,  and  he  had 
two  hours  before  him.  He  need  not  be  back  in  time  for 
the  abbreviated  family  prayers,  now  taken  by  his  mother, 
but  he  must  fulfil  his  engagement  with  his  father  not  later 
than  ten  o'clock.  He  had  noticed  a  change  in  the  patient 
that  morning.  He  had  only  been  capable  of  the  feeblest 
possible  effort  when  his  son  had  lifted  him  to  a  sitting 
posture. 

There  could  be  no  reason  for  hurrying,  the  Groomes 
would  not  have  finished  dinner  yet,  but  Dickie  cut  across 
the  stubble  of  the  cornfield  instead  of  following  the  path 
down  to  the  lane.  He  was  conscious  of  a  driving  sense  of 
expectation ;  he  felt  as  if  he  had  already  delayed  too  long. 

The  lingering  whiteness  of  sunset  had  almost  faded  out 
of  the  north-west,  leaving  only  a  paler  arc  of  sky  on  the 
horizon  behind  the  common;  and  the  harvest  moon,  in  its 
first  quarter,  setting  towards  the  south,  was  but  a  lover's 
moon  whose  light  was  no  more  than  a  guide  to  the  cover 
of  still  deeper  shadows. 

Indeed,  when  he  had  come  under  the  shade  of  the  big 
trees  in  the  Halton  House  garden,  he  realised  that  even 
were  Sibyl  out  there  in  the  weak  moonlight,  he  might  never 
find  her  in  that  big,  rambling  place.  His  intuition  had 
failed  him  in  this;  he  had  no  certainty  of  where  he  should 

437 


438  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

meet  her.  Dimly  he  had  pictured  their  meeting  in  the  gar- 
den, but  there  were  a  hundred  possible  rendezvous. 

He  was  full  of  doubts  and  hesitations  now  that  he  was 
so  near  her;  diffident  and  nervous  as  he  had  never  been  in 
all  his  life  before.  Even  the  thought  of  meeting  her  father 
intimidated  him.  He  was  not  ashamed,  but  he  was  held 
by  his  discovery  of  that  afternoon.  Above  everything  he 
desired  that  he  should  see  no  one  but  Sibyl  that  night. 

Nevertheless  his  impatience  urged  him  continually  nearer 
to  the  house.  He  was  beset  by  his  apprehension  of  being 
too  late.  And  he  came,  at  last,  stealthily  as  a  thief  down 
the  two  flights  of  stone  steps  and  to  the  edge  of  the  lawn 
in  front  of  the  drawing-room. 

The  French  window  stood  wide  open  and  a  panel  of  light 
lay  across  the  gravel  of  the  terrace  path.  Within  the  room 
he  could  see  Sibyl  sitting  on  a  Chesterfield,  with  her  face 
towards  the  garden.  She  was  leaning  forward,  her  elbows 
on  her  knees  and  her  chin  supported  in  her  hands.  The 
corners  of  her  mouth  drooped  in  an  expression  of  forlorn 
despair. 

He  could  see  no  one  else  in  the  room  and  her  attitude 
and  expression  seemed  in  some  way  to  proclaim  the  fact 
that  she  was  alone  and  knew  herself  unwatched.  She  had 
surrendered  herself  so  completely  to  the  depression  of  her 
spirit. 

She  saw  him  at  once  when  he  came  quietly  forward  into 
the  panel  of  light  that  lay  across  the  path,  and  she  lifted 
her  head  a  little  and  stared  out  at  him.  She  gave  no  sign 
of  alarm  or  surprise.  She  stared  at  him  as  she  might  have 
stared  at  some  deliberately  provoked  illusion.  But  the  ex- 
pression of  misery  slowly  faded  from  her  face  as  though 
the  conviction  of  his  presence  gradually  mingled  with  the 
fabric  of  her  dreams. 

"I  am  real,"  Dickie  said,  standing  on  the  sill  of  the 
French  window. 

She  got  to  her  feet,  then,  with  the  matter-of-fact  air  of 
one  who  having  made  a  decision  has  no  further  doubt  as 
to  her  future  action. 


THE  TWO  SACRAMENTS  439 

"I  thought  you  were  never  coming,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice,  and  put  up  her  hand  to  warn  him  that  he,  too,  must 
be  very  quiet. 

"We  can't  talk  here,"  she  went  on  in  a  whisper.  "Go  up 
the  garden — to  the  top  gate — I'll  come  to  you,  there,  in 
a  few  minutes." 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  her,  but  she  shook  her  head  with 
a  little  frown ;  and  then  nodded  imperatively  and  framed  the 
word  "Go"  with  her  lips. 

He  looked  at  her  doubtfully  for  a  moment, .  and  then 
turned  back  into  the  weak  moonlight. 

He  did  not  go  up  to  the  top  gate.  He  waited  for  her 
under  the  trees  at  the  head  of  the  first  flight  of  steps.  He 
was  afraid  to  go  too  far  away  from  the  house.  He  had 
not  been  able  to  guess  her  intention ;  he  wondered  whether 
she  had  dismissed  him  by  a  trick  because  she  dared  not 
face  his  pleading.  Perhaps  she  had  thought  that  he  might 
insist  on  seeing  her  father. 

He  was  full  of  a  great  impatience.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
he  was  on  the  verge  of  some  wonderful  realisation  of  him- 
self and  of  life,  that  might  yet  be  for  ever  hidden  from 
him.  He  believed  that  if  he  did  not  see  Sibyl  that  evening, 
she  would  be  finally  lost  to  him.  He  had  lost  his  con- 
fidence in  her  and  in  himself.  The  night  and  the  garden 
gave  him  no  sense  of  tangible,  ductible  realities.  He  was 
weak  with  the  feebleness  of  the  dreamer  furiously  opposing 
and  defeated  by  gossamer.  Only  Sibyl  was  real  to  him 
and  while  he  despairingly  desired  her  presence,  he  felt 
powerless  to  find  her  or  to  command  her  if  she  could  be 
found. 

And  over  all,  the  consciousness  that  he  had  no  time  to 
spare  continually  fretted  him.  Nothing  must  prevent  him 
from  being  back  at  the  Rectory  by  ten  o'clock.  That  ap- 
pointment with  his  father  was  an  essential,  sacred  thing; 
he  felt  that  not  even  this  meeting  with  Sibyl  must  inter- 
fere with  that.  He  took  out  his  watch  but  it  was  too 
dark  to  see  the  time  under  the  trees,  and  as  he  made  a 
furtive  movement  down  the  steps  towards  a  clear  patch  of 


440  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

moonlight,  he  heard  the  grave  deliberate  toll  of  the  church 
clock  striking  nine.  The  sound  of  it  came  to  him  as  the 
sound  of  a  warning,  as  a  solemn  voice  that  had  answered 
his  question  and  cautioned  him  that  no  more  than  an  hour 
of  his  time  remained. 

He  was  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  when  he  saw  Sibyl  come 
suddenly  out  into  the  panel  of  lamplight  that  was  splayed 
across  the  gravel  of  the  terrace  path. 

And  when  she  had  come  to  him,  without  reproof  for 
disobeying  her  command,  and  had  silently  put  her  hand 
in  his,  his  sense  of  urgency  and  doubt  vanished,  fading  out 
of  his  mind  as  the  last  vibration  of  the  church  bell  throbbed 
mournfully  into  silence.  .  .  . 

She  did  not  speak  until  they  were  at  the  top  of  the  second 
flight  of  steps  and  out  of  earshot  of  the  house. 

"I  want  to  tell  you,  dear,"  she  said,  then.  "Listen  to 
me  before  you  say  anything.  You've  got  to  agree,  you 
know,  before  we  can  decide  anything.  Let's  go  up  to  the 
top  of  the  garden.  I  shall  feel  safer  there,  and  it's  where 
we  parted  last  time.  So  much  has  happened  since  then." 

He  pressed  her  hand.  "I  won't  interrupt,"  he  said. 
"Go  on." 

"You  see,"  she  began,  "I've  had  the  most  awful  time  with 
father  since  I  saw  you,  how  long  ago  is  it  ?" 

"Rather  more  than  a  fortnight,"  he  said. 

"It  seems  years,"  she  commented,  and  went  on:  "He 
knew,  of  course,  directly  I  got  back  to  him  about  you 
and  me,  and  he  began  to  talk  to  me  about  it  at  once.  He 
said  that  he  wouldn't  attempt  to  stop  my  marrying  you 
if  I  wanted  to,  but  at  the  same  time  he  made  it  absolutely 
impossible.  He  didn't  explain  at  all, — you  know  his  way, — 
but  he  just  made  me  feel  that  I  was  throwing  him  over. 
He  pretended  in  a  way  not  to  mind,  but  .  .  .  well,  how 
could  I  desert  him  like  that? 

"And  the  next  day  we  talked  it  all  over  in  a  much 
more  friendly  way.  It's  my  thought  for  him  he  wants. 
He  has  always  said  that.  You  know,  dear,  don't  you, 
how  he  talks  of  being  so  alone?  And  I  couldn't  do  any- 


THE  TWO  SACRAMENTS  441 

thing,  I  thought,  except  make  up  my  mind  to  forget  all 
about  you.  I  don't  see  that  I  could  have  decided  to  do 
anything  else,  then?  So  we  agreed  about  it,  and  I  prom- 
ised, and  kept  out  of  your  way  when  you  went  in  to  Med- 
borough  that  day,  and  father  told  Hanson  that  he  wouldn't 
see  you  if  you  called.  And  I  did  try  most  frightfully  hard 
to  forget  all  about  you.  But,  oh!  Dickie,  of  course,  I 
couldn't;  and  it  kept  on  getting  worse  and  worse  every 
day.  Sometimes  I  would  be  all  right  for  quite  a  long  time 
and  then  I  wouldn't;  and  every  time  I  thought  of  you, 
father  knew,  and  even  if  he  didn't  say  anything,  I  knew 
that  he  was  hurt. 

"Well,  it  finished  this  afternoon,  really.  He  gave  me 
two  alternatives.  He  said  either  I  must  give  him  up  or 
you.  He  said  we  would  go  to  the  Riviera  for  the  winter 
if  I  gave  you  up,  and  that  I  must  decide  one  way  or  the 
other  before  to-morrow.  That  was  just  before  dinner, — 
only  we  didn't  have  any.  He  was  taken  up  to  his  own 
room  and  I  couldn't  eat  anything.  I  just  sat  in  the  draw- 
ing-room and  longed  for  you.  I  was  sure  you  would  come, 
and  then  when  you  did  come,  I  didn't  believe  it  was  you, 
at  first.  But  that  settled  it."  She  squeezed  his  hand  very 
tightly  as  she  continued,  "I  went  straight  up  and  told  him. 
I  simply  said  that  it  wasn't  a  question  of  alternatives  at 
all,  that  I  could  no  more  help  thinking  of  you  than  I  could 
help  breathing." 

They  had  come,  now,  to  the  overgrown  garden  at  the 
top  of  the  hill,  and  as  she  made  her  last  confession,  he 
could  just  see  her  face  as  a  vague  light  against  the  dark- 
ness. "What  can  I  do,  Dickie?"  she  pleaded.  "You  have 
always  been  so  certain  about  everything;  be  certain  now." 

He  drew  her  close  to  him  and  bent  down  till  his  cheek 
lay  against  hers. 

"There  isn't  anything  to  be  certain  about,"  he  said.  "You 
can't  help  yourself.  You've  just  said  that  you  haven't  any 
choice.  If  your  father  only  wanted  your  attendance,  or 
wanted  you  as  a  nurse,  it  would  be  another  thing,  wouldn't 
it?  But  he  wants  your  thoughts  and  you  can't  give  them 


442  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

to  him.  I  am  sorry  for  him,  but  he  has  got  to  give  you 
up.  I  expect  he  has  done  it  already.  He  must  know  well 
enough  that  he  has  lost  you." 

"But  isn't  it  my  duty  ...   ?"  she  whispered. 

"That  doesn't  mean  anything,"  Dickie  said.  "You're  not 
thinking  of  us  and  him;  you're  thinking  of  some  idea  of 
duty  that  doesn't  apply  to  us  three.  He  wants  too  much 
from  you ;  if  he  wanted  less  you  might  feel  that  you  ought 
to  give  it  to  him.  But  he  wants  something  you  can't 
give." 

He  knew  that  his  thought  had  not  been  expressed,  but  he 
knew,  also,  that  she  understood.  The  figures  of  his  own 
father  and  of  Philip  Groome  were  there  with  them  as  a 
tragic  presentiment  of  inevitable  failure.  Neither  could 
give  himself  by  thrusting  out  into  life,  and  neither  could 
draw  life  down  and  back  into  his  own  solitude. 

"He  is  alone,"  Dickie  concluded.  "You  can't  ever  go 
back  and  be  with  him  in  the  way  you  used  to  be.  In  a 
way,  I  think,  you've  just  been  born." 

"You're  always  so  sure,"  she  said,  and  nestled  a  little 
closer  to  him  as  if  she  found  comfort  and  rest  in  his  stead- 
fastness. "But  you  are  right,"  she  went  on,  "about  this,  I 
mean, — I  know  you're  right.  We  can't  help  ourselves, 
can  we?" 

"We  can't;  we  can't,"  he  answered  her  passionately.  His 
time  was  running  out  and  he  wanted  to  waste  no  more  of 
it  in  vain  arguments  and  considerations.  In  a  few  minutes, 
now,  he  must  leave  her  and  fulfil  the  duty  he  had  under- 
taken. Nothing  could  keep  him  from  that  plain  task; 
but  he  found  no  satisfaction  in  any  ethical  reflection  on 
moral  responsibilities.  He  had  learnt  that  lesson  long  ago 
when  he  was  in  the  Bank  of  Medborough,  and  had  attempted 
to  uphold  the  principle  of  justice  which  George  Smith  of 
the  Loan  Company  had  so  obviously  violated.  And  he  had 
discovered  that  he  was  not  able  to  arbitrate  on  these  ques- 
tions of  "right"  and  "wrong" ;  that  no  one  was  able  to  lay 
down  a  universal  rule  of  conduct.  All  he  could  do  was  to 
satisfy  his  own  sense  of  what  was  right  for  himself;  and 


THE  TWO  SACRAMENTS  443 

refuse  to  express,  or  even  to  feel,  judgment  and  criticism 
of  other  people. 

"I  never  tried  to  fight  against  my  love  for  you,  dear,  after 
that  first  day  at  Oakstone,"  he  went  on.  "I  hadn't  ever 
cared  before  for  any  one  like  this.  I've  never  had  any 
sort  of  love  affair.  And,  now,  I  want  .  .  ." 

She  clung  to  him  eagerly.  "What  do  you  want,  dar- 
ling?" she  asked,  and  then  added  inconsequently,  "I  feel 
such  a  little  thing."  - 

He  drew  her  down  to  her  knees  and  knelt  before  her 
in  the  darkness.  "I  want  our  love  to  be  all  our  own.  I 
don't  want  it  talked  about  and  stared  at.  If  we  get  mar- 
ried, it  must  be  as  quietly  as  possible — and  it  must  be 
afterwards,  if  you  know  what  I  mean,  dear?  That  legal 
business  isn't  for  us  at  all;  it's  only  a  kind  of  registration. 
Our  love  hasn't  anything  to  do  with  any  one  else.  We 
must  make  our  vows  to  each  other  without  witnesses.  Do 
you  know  what  I  mean,  dear?  Don't  you  feel  like  that, 
too?" 

He  felt  her  heart  throbbing  violently  against  his ;  and  they 
clung  to  each  other  like  two  frightened  children.  There, 
in  the  stillness  and  the  darkness,  the  world  had  vanished 
and  they  were  alone;  and  afraid;  and  yet  passionately  de- 
sirous to  draw  closer  together. 

"Oh!  Dickie,  I  do  love  you  so,"  she  whispered,  as  she 
put  her  lips  to  his. 


ii 

The  church  clock  struck  ten  as  he  ran  back  across  the 
cornfield,  but  the  sound  of  the  deep  bell,  ringing  out  in  the 
night,  held,  now,  no  note  of  warning, — rather,  it  seemed, 
in  its  slow,  deliberate  way,  to  solemnise  the  fulfilment  of 
a  vow. 

They  were  all  up  when  he  went  in  and  his  mother  looked 
up  at  him  with  an  expression  that  was  half-apprehensive, 
half -eager. 


444  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

"We  didn't  like  to  go  to  bed  until  you  came  in,"  Adela 
said.  "We  weren't  sure  ...  we  think  he  must  be  very 
near  the  end.  .  .  ." 

"Are  you  going  up  to  him?"  Eleanor  asked  harshly,  and 
before  he  could  reply  she  added,  "Where  have  you  been  ?" 

"Of  course,  I'm  going  up  to  him,"  Dickie  said,  "now; 
at  once.  It's  only  just  ten.  It  struck  as  I  came  across  the 
field.  I  never  go  up  before  ten." 

"Have  you  been  down  at  the  Groomes',  then?"  Eleanor 
persisted. 

"Yes,"  Dickie  said,  impatiently.  "But  what  makes  you 
think  he  is  ...  worse,  to-night?  I  thought  this  morn- 
ing  .  .  ." 

"He's  hardly  breathing,"  Adela  said. 

"Have  you  seen  him,  then?"  Dickie  asked. 

"We've  all  been  up  to  him,"  Eleanor  said.  "We  couldn't 
think  what  had  become  of  you." 

Mrs.  Lynneker  standing  timidly  behind  her  two  daughters 
looked  anxiously  to  Dickie  for  help. 

"Do  you  think,  dear,  we  ought  to  send  for  Mr.  Wat- 
son?" she  asked. 

"Whatever  for?"  Dickie  said. 

"Oughtn't  he  to  have  the  Sacrament  ?"  his  mother  pleaded 
apologetically. 

Dickie  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Even  if  he  wanted  to 
have  it,  he  couldn't  swallow  either  the  bread  or  the  wine," 
he  said.  "And  you  remember,  when  he  took  it  a  month 
ago,  he  said  that  that  would  probably  be  the  last  time." 

"It  seems  so  dreadful,"  Mrs.  Lynneker  began  and  sighed 
miserably;  but  her  expression  was  one  of  weariness  and 
anxiety  rather  than  sorrow.  "You  don't  think  we  ought 
to  send  for  Edward?"  she  concluded. 

"It  does  seem  rather  awful  that  we  can't  do  anything," 
Adela  agreed. 

"Some  one  must  sit  up  with  him,"  Eleanor  added. 

"I'll  sit  up  with  him,"  Dickie  said. 

The  three  women  followed  him  as  he  went  upstairs, 
but  they  did  not  go  into  the  room  with  him. 


THE  TWO  SACRAMENTS  445 

A  lamp  was  burning  on  the  table  by  the  bed,  and  Dickie 
went  over  and  stared  down  intently  at  the  passing  emblem 
of  humanity  that  still  confined  the  spirit  of  his  father. 

"Shall  I  help  you  now,  father?"  he  askd. 

For  one  moment  the  Rector's  eyelids  flickered,  and  very 
feebly  he  shook  his  head. 

Dickie  troubled  him  no  further,  but  went  out  to  the 
little  group  of  figures  huddled  together  on  the  landing. 

"I  think  it  may  be  all  over  to-night,"  he  whispered.  "He 
is  still  conscious,  but  he  doesn't  want  to  be  moved." 

"Shall  you  stay  with  him?"  Adela  asked,  under  her 
breath. 

Dickie  nodded  and  added,  "I'll  call  you  if  there  is  any 
need." 

"He  might  want  .  .  .  just  at  the  last  ...  to  see  us, 
perhaps  ?"  his  mother  suggested,  timidly. 

"If  he  does,  I'll  fetch  you,"  Dickie  said. 

"I  shan't  go  to  bed,"  Eleanor  announced. 

"I  don't  see  that  it  will  help,  sitting  up,"  Adela  com- 
mented. "I  could  slip  into  my  dressing-gown  in  no  time 
if  I  were  wanted." 

"Well,  you  may  as  well  go  upstairs,  now,"  Dickie  sug- 
gested. "It  won't  help  to  go  on  whispering  out  here  on 
the  landing.  I've  got  to  come  up,  too,  to  fetch  some 
work." 

He  kissed  them  all  good-night,  but  when  he  had  fetched 
Levinson's  new  calculations,  a  block  of  paper  and  a  book 
of  logarithms  from  his  own  room,  he  found  his  mother 
at  her  door,  waiting  for  him.  She  did  not  speak,  but  she 
put  out  her  arms  to  him  and  kissed  him  again  with  a  kind 
of  gentle  fervour.  He  understood  that  he  was  still  being 
"an  immense  comfort"  to  her.  .  .  . 

He  had  been  through  a  wonderful  emotional  experience 
that  evening  and  he  was  now  set  down  for  several  hours 
in  conditions  that  might  well  have  stirred  him  to  strange 
reflections  and  visions,  but  the  habit  of  work  he  had  ac- 
quired was  too  strong  to  be  overcome  even  by  those  calls 
upon  his  imagination.  Within  five  minutes  he  had  settled 


446  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

himself  at  the  table  and  was  deep  in  his  calculations.  Once 
or  twice  he  was  disturbed  by  the  moths  that  came  and 
fluttered  round  his  lamp  and  after  one  or  two  such  inter- 
ruptions, he  got  up  and  almost  closed  the  uncurtained  case- 
ment window.  Every  now  and  again  he  would  go  over 
to  the  bed  and  stare  at  the  grey  face  on  the  pillow  and 
listen  to  the  faint,  almost  imperceptible  respiration  that 
still  slowly  and  reluctantly  maintained  the  thin  pulse  of 
life  in  that  incredibly  emaciated  body.  Occasionally  he 
would  pause  when  he  had  conclusively  ticked  some  stage 
of  his  calculations,  and  look  up  with  a  sudden  softening 
of  his  expression  and  attitude,  that  had  a  suggestion  of 
thanksgiving  for  the  new  tenderness  that  had  come  into 
his  life.  But  always  he  returned  after  a  few  seconds  to 
the  work  that  lay  before  him. 

The  fluttering  of  leaves  as  he  flicked  over  the  pages 
of  his  log-books ;  the  intermittent  muttering  of  his  pencil  as 
he  decisively  cast  his  calculations  into  symbols;  or  the 
abrupt  spasmodic  creaking  of  chair  or  table  as  he  changed 
his  position,  were  the  only  sounds  that  challenged  the 
perfect  stillness  of  the  night.  The  grey  figure  on  the  bed 
never  moved  its  position,  nor  opened  its  eyes. 

It  was  a  little  after  five  when  Dickie  finished  the  work 
he  had  brought  down,  and  looking  up  he  saw  that  the 
window  was  no  longer  a  range  of  three  opaque  oblongs  that 
reflected  the  lighted  interior  of  the  room.  A  greyness  was 
coming  in  the  East;  a  black  silhouette  of  leaves  and 
branches  was  just  visible  against  the  distant  lift  of  the 
sky. 

He  got  up  and  threw  two  of  the  casements  wide  open 
and  was  aware  that  a  sweet,  cool  air  was  moving  out- 
side and  began  to  blow  into  the  room.  There  was  a  faint 
rustling  and  whispering  among  the  trees,  the  little  conse- 
quential stir  and  chatter  of  the  things  that  were  waking 
to  the  dawn. 

He  rested  his  elbows  on  the  high  sill  of  the  window  and 
leaned  his  head  and  shoulders  out  into  the  fresh,  sharp 
air.  His  mind  was  suddenly  relieved  from  the  strain  of 


THE  TWO  SACRAMENTS  447 

attention  to  his  figures.  He  felt  amazingly  clear-headed 
and  vigorous,  and  yet,  for  once,  the  slave  rather  than  the 
master  of  his  thoughts. 

And  as  the  sky  brightened  in  the  east  until  the  out- 
line of  the  great  elm  at  the  top  of  the  garden  began  to 
bulk  as  a  definite  shadow  against  the  fading  darkness,  and 
one  by  one  the  familiar  objects  of  the  day  grew  again 
out  of  the  obscurity  of  the  night,  he  had  a  vision  of  life 
and  continuity  and  some  half -hidden  meaning  that  lay  be- 
hind his  questioning  of  the  image  of  Halton  Church;  of 
the  great  Gothic  monuments  in  London  and  in  Europe; 
of  the  long  succession  of  his  own  family  through  the 
generations  that  had  left,  here  and  there,  a  record  of 
their  passing  on  English  life ;  and  of  that  stoic  figure  of  his 
father  who  was  even  then  come  to  a  determination  of  his 
earthly  destiny. 

At  that  moment,  all  these  symbols  seemed  to  him  as  one, 
presenting  the  thought  of  something  that  endured  through- 
out all  the  changing,  evolving  form  of  life.  The  stable 
proclamation  of  Halton  Tower  was  akin  in  some  way  to 
the  courage  of  his  father's  dying,  and  akin  to  the  boast  of 
a  family  maintaining  its  modest  traditions  through  eight 
centuries  of  English  history.  Those  different  shapes  and 
meanings  of  endurance  all  spoke  of  an  inalterable  spirit 
that  persisted  through  every  phase  of  its  temporary  cele- 
brations. He,  himself,  had  come  to  the  beginning  of  a 
century  that  was  great  with  the  promise  of  development. 
But  that  promise,  however  splendidly  fulfilled  whether  by 
its  social  or  merely  mechanical  progress,  could  reach  but 
one  more  phase  in  the  long  movement.  And  no  stage  must 
be  judged  as  an  absolute,  or  even  relatively  better  or  worse 
than  the  stage  that  preceded  or  followed  it.  Behind  all 
progress  and  all  life  was  this  permanent  spirit  of  en- 
durance, of  resistance,  of  power:  endurance  to  maintain 
the  truth  of  independence  to  all  material  pains  and  changes ; 
resistance  to  demonstrate  the  transience  of  the  image; 
power  to  prove  that  while  the  symbol  may  be  changed,  the 


448  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

spirit  shall  endure  inalterable  to  find  ever  new  forms  of 
expression. 

That  was  Dickie's  personal  solution.  He  did  not  seek  to 
enquire  whither  the  spirit  tended,  nor  even  whether  there 
were,  perhaps,  some  ultimate  goal  towards  which  he  might 
ideally  aspire.  .  .  . 

The  morning  chorus  of  happy  birds  had  risen  to  ecstatic 
twitterings  among  the  branches  of  the  limes  outside  the 
window;  the  great  elm  had  taken  to  itself  anew  its  own 
solidity  and  colour;  and  in  the  east  the  rim  of  the  flaming 
sun  had  come  to  quench  the  last  glimmer  of  the  fainting 
stars. 

He  turned  back  with  a  sigh  of  relief  to  extinguish  the 
wan  flame  of  the  unnecessary  lamp,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
that  a  thin  draught  of  cold  air  blew  past  him  and  escaped 
into  the  warmth  of  dawn. 

He  bent  over  the  bed  and  then  fell  on  his  knees  beside 
it,  listening  now  for  the  beat  of  a  heart  that  had  ceased, 
even  as  in  the  same  posture  he  had  thrilled  a  few  hours 
before  to  the  throb  of  a  heart  that  beat  so  close  to  his 
own. 

The  spirit  of  the  Rector  had  passed  so  silently  that  his 
son  had  heard  no  sound  of  its  last  effort  to  win  to 
freedom. 


XIX 
THE    LYNNEKER    FAMILY 


THE  dining-room  table  was  never  very  steady  when  it 
was  extended  to  its  greatest  length  by  the  addition 
of  two  extra  leaves;  and  Mrs.  Lynneker's  satisfaction  in 
contemplating  the  largeness  of  the  party  sitting  down  to 
supper,  was  rather  spoilt  by  her  apprehension  of  a  catas- 
trophe. Dickie,  sitting  unhappily  just  at  the  most  untrust- 
worthy junction,  had  an  alarming  habit  of  suddenly  plant- 
ing his  elbows  on  the  cloth,  and  whenever  he  did  that, 
his  mother's  attention  was  horribly  distracted  from  the 
pleasantly  soothing  conversation  she  was  holding  with  Mar- 
tyn.  Dickie  was  so  uncompromisingly  solid.  The  other 
three  men  looked  slender  and  fragile  by  the  side  of  him, 
even  Latimer  who  seemed  likely  to  prove  an  exception  to 
the  rule  that  none  of  the  Lynneker  men  ever  grew  fat — 
already  he  was  developing  what  Martyn  had  called  an  im- 
pressive local  embonpoint.  Aunt  Mary,  who  was  shrivelling 
with  age,  although  her  eyes  still  shone  with  the  old  fire  of 
conviction,  looked  as  if  she  would  have  gone  into  Dickie's 
pocket.  Only  Mrs.  Latimer,  dark  and  .full-bodied,  could 
challenge  any  physical  comparison  with  this  youngest  Lyn- 
neker of  his  generation.  And  she  had,  also,  something  of 
Dickie's  plain  habit  of  speech.  Old  Mrs.  Lynneker,  who 
had  constantly  to  keep  watch  on  her  inclination  to  address 
her  daughter-in-law  as  Mrs.  Blackwell,  was  intimidated  by 
that  self-reliant,  confident  woman.  Helen's  solidity  was  so 
much  less  aggressive.  Mrs.  Lynneker  was  very  fond  of 
Helen.  .  .  . 

449 


450  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

Martyn,  keenly  aware  of  his  aunt's  anxiety,  drew  his 
cousin's  attention  to  it,  at  last. 

"Aunt  Catherine  is  getting  a  little  nervous,  Dick,"  he 
said,  "of  your  tremendous  assaults  upon  the  table." 

"Oh!  it's  all  right,  mater,"  Dickie  assured  her.  "It's  a 
bit  rickety,  but  it  can't  go.  I  had  a  look  at  it  this  after- 
noon before  the  leaves  were  put  in."  He  gripped  the  table 
by  the  edge  and  gave  it  a  confident  shake. 

Mrs.  Lynneker's  hand  went  up  nervously  to  her  mouth. 
"Oh !  the  epergne,  darling ;  you'll  certainly  have  it  over," 
she  implored  him. 

"All  serene,  mater;  I'll  be  careful,"  he  said. 

"You  forget  how  strong  you  are,  Dick,"  Aunt  Mary's 
thin,  sweet  voice  came  from  the  other  end  of  the  table 
with  the  effect  of  a  little  chiming  clock. 

Mrs.  Latimer  smiled  rather  superciliously.  "It  is  the 
weak  people  who  break  things,"  she  said. 

"Oh !  I  don't  know ;  do  you  think  so,  Julia  ?"  her  husband 
put  in  with  an  air  that  was  slightly  apologetic.  "We've 
always  looked  upon  Dick  as  a  blunderer." 

"He  seems  to  have  blundered  to  some  purpose,"  Julia 
commented  dryly. 

"What'll  this  post  of  yours  at  the  Observatory  lead  to  ?" 
asked  Edward  from  the  top  of  the  table. 

"Nothing  particular,"  mumbled  Dickie. 

"You  might  become  Astronomer  Royal,  Dick,"  Martyn 
suggested. 

"I  might,"  Dickie  agreed  carelessly;  "but  I  certainly 
shan't,  you  know.  That  isn't  my  job,  at  all." 

Latimer  raised  his  eyebrows.  "Why  ever  not?"  he 
asked. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  a  public  functionary,"  Dickie  re- 
turned. 

"Dick  has  no  ambitions,"  put  in  Eleanor. 

"Oh !  I  have,"  he  expostulated.  "I'd  like  to  do  something 
useful;  formulate  some  practical  theory  of  the  nebulae, 
or  something  like  that.  It'll  take  me  ten  years'  grind,  of 
course,  to  get  familiar  with  the  detail  of  astronomical 


THE  LYNNEKER  FAMILY  451 

work.  Levinson  says  he's  going  to  put  me  on  to  observa- 
tion as  soon  as  he  can,  in  connexion  with  the  big  star  map 
they're  making." 

"Eventually  you'll  go  down  to  fame,  I  suppose?"  asked 
Latimer. 

"It's  the  means  rather  than  the  end  that  interests  me," 
Dickie  said. 

"That's  pure  side,"  Latimer  urged. 

"Is  it?"  Dickie  asked,  looking  at  his  brother  with  a 
complacent  grin.  "Well,  you  always  thought  I  was  too 
cock-sure.  I  say,  haven't  we  all  finished?" 

Old  Mrs.  Lynneker  sighed  as  she  rose  from  the  table. 
This  wonderful  son  of  hers  was  no  less  a  mystery  than 
he  had  ever  been.  She  touched  his  arm  fondly  as  she  went 
out.  "I  know  you're  going  to  be  famous  one  of  these 
days,"  she  whispered. 

"And  I  hear  we  are  to  congratulate  you  upon  another 
engagement,  Dick,"  Martyn  said  when  the  four  men  were 
alone. 

"Thanks,"  Dickie  said  quietly. 

"Is  the  marriage  going  to  be  soon?"  Martyn  asked. 

"Very  soon,"  Dickie  returned,  "and  very  inconspicuous." 

His  two  brothers  were  watching  him  with  an  evident 
shade  of  jealousy. 

"I  suppose  you  know  Lord  Wansford?"  Latimer  asked. 

Dickie  shook  his  head.  "I'm  not  marrying  the  family," 
he  remarked. 

Edwarcl  blinked  a  nervous  deprecation  of  his  brother's 
rudeness.  "Do  they  disapprove?"  he  asked. 

"I  haven't  consulted  them,"  Dickie  returned. 

"At  all  events  some  of  Miss  Groome's  family  don't  dis- 
approve," Martyn  said.  "I  hear  that  the  Bishop  is  coming 
over  to  take  the  funeral  to-morrow." 

"Good  Lord,  Martyn,"  Dickie  expostulated.  "I  hope  you 
don't  think  he  is  going  to  do  that  on  my  account;  or  that 
his  approval  or  disapproval  of  me  would  make  any  differ- 
ence. I  think  Olivier's  a  decent  chap  enough  to  come  for 
the  pater's  sake." 


452  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

Martyn  looked  up  with  his  steady,  charming  smile. 
"Quite,  Dick;  quite,"  he  said.  "Nevertheless  I  take  it  that 
Olivier  does  not  disapprove  your  engagement  to  his  niece." 

"Doesn't  seem  to,"  mumbled  Dickie. 

"His  manners  don't  improve  with  age,  do  they?"  com- 
mented Latimer. 

Edward  clicked  his  tongue  and  tossed  his  head.  "He  is 
the  most  extraordinary  chap,"  he  said. 

Dickie  regarded  his  two  clerical  brothers  with  a  thought- 
ful stare.  "I  daresay  you're  right,"  he  said,  "only,  why 
for  Heaven's  sake  can't  you  leave  me  alone  ?  I  don't  criti- 
cise you  for  being  ordinary." 

The  blood  was  coming  into  Edward's  face,  but  Latimer 
made  a  praiseworthy  effort  to  keep  his  temper. 

"That's  simply  a  verbal  quibble,"  he  said.  "Although,  of 
course,  if  you  regard  the  common  conventions  of  politeness 
as  rot,  we  are  ordinary  to  that  extent.  We  happen  to  be- 
lieve in  behaving  decently." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  agreed  Dickie. 

"And  you  think  your  opinion  is  of  more  value  than  any- 
body else's?" 

Dickie  turned  to  Martyn.  "Why  does  everybody  accuse 
me  of  being  so  self-opinionated  ?"  he  asked  with  a  whimsical 
smile.  "I  don't  criticise  people.  I  don't  want  to  alter  them. 
But  just  because  I  speak  as  I  feel  about  things,  every  one 
accuses  me  of  wanting  to  shove  my  opinion  down  their 
throats." 

Edward's  impatience  was  warming  to  the  flash  point, 
but  Martyn's  smooth,  equable  voice  prevented  the  explo- 
sion. "I  rather  fancy,  my  dear  Dick,"  he  said,  "that  it's 
because  we  are  just  a  little  envious  of  certain  qualities  in 
you.  More  especially  we  Lynnekers,  as  a  family.  We  are 
apt,  you  know,  to  take  the  line  of  least  resistance;  and  it 
annoys  us  to  see  you  succeeding  so  admirably  by,  I  feel 
inclined  to  say  by  the  more  honest,  certainly  by  more 
courageous  means." 

"Oh !  well,  it  doesn't  matter,  does  it  ?"  Dickie  returned. 

"You  can't  even  acknowledge  a  compliment  decently," 


THE  LYNNEKER  FAMILY  453 

snapped  Edward.  It  annoyed  him  that  Martyn,  taking 
his  own  line  of  least  resistance,  should  have  been  weak 
enough  to  defer  to  Dickie. 

"I  say,  we  haven't  altered  much  in  the  last  eight  years," 
Dickie  remarked  by  way  of  changing  the  conversation.  "We 
were  going  on  exactly  like  this  the  night  before  you  were 
married,  Ted.  Do  you  remember  being  frightfully  riled 
with  me  and  upsetting  the  salt?" 

Martyn's  suave,  musical  laugh  completed  the  reconcilia- 
tion. "I  remember  perfectly,"  he  said. 

Edward  smiled  his  forgiveness.  "You  always  had  a 
habit  of  getting  me  on  the  raw,"  he  said  magnanimously. 
"You  do  blunder  into  one's  sensibilities  so  recklessly.  Really, 
you  know,  Dick,  I  do  think  you  might  have  a  little  more 
regard  for  other  people's  feelings." 

There  was  some  look  on  Latimer's  face  that  reminded 
Dickie  of  that  old  quarrel  about  the  equation.  Latimer's 
position  had  amply  confirmed  him  in  his  reading  of  the 
printed  answer;  of  the  accepted  code  that  had  provided 
him  with  such  a  comfortable  niche  in  the  established  order 
of  society.  "Admit  you're  wrong,"  his  expression  said, 
now ;  and  he  was  surely  justified  in  believing  that  no  last- 
ing benefit  could  come  from  any  attempt  to  work  out  his 
own  answer  to  the  complicated  equation  of  life.  He  found 
a  satisfying  solution  displayed  in  the  world's  code,  and 
whether  it  were  theoretically  right  or  wrong,  he  meant  to 
make  his  own  working  agree  with  it. 


II 

During  the  bustle  and  entertainment  of  supper  no  refer- 
ence had  been  made  to  the  influence  that  had  thus  brought 
the  family  together  again  under  the  old  roof.  The  two 
Culver  girls,  who  had  gone  to  live  at  Bath  since  the  Canon's 
death,  were  absent,  and  Mrs.  Latimer  was  a  new,  and  in 


454  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

some  way  an  unaccepted,  addition  to  the  old  circle; — with 
those  exceptions,  and  one  other,  it  was  the  same  group  that 
had  met  to  celebrate  Edward's  wedding.  But  when  they 
were  all  collected  together  in  the  drawing-room,  some  con- 
sciousness of  the  real  difference  between  this  meeting  and 
all  others  in  the  same  room  began  to  stir  in  the  minds  of 
those  who  remembered  so  keenly  the  place  and  its  associa- 
tions. 

The  Rector's  chair  had  instinctively  been  avoided  by 
them  all,  until  Mrs.  Latimer,  unaware  of  any  reason  why 
the  most  comfortable  chair  in  the  room  should  remain 
unoccupied,  deliberately  crossed  over  from  the  sofa  and 
sat  down  in  it. 

Edward,  standing  on  the  hearth-rug,  fidgeted  uncom- 
fortably, and  looked  at  Latimer  with  a  weak,  deprecatory 
smile,  but  both  of  them  were  too  ashamed  of  appearing 
sentimental  to  offer  any  protest.  Eleanor,  with  her  hands 
tightly  clenched  together  in  her  lap,  appeared  to  be  bearing 
this  new  trial  in  the  bitterly  Christian  spirit  that  had  so 
far  supported  her  through  all  oppressions  and  insults.  Mrs. 
Lynneker,  with  her  lips  set,  was  staring  down  at  the  floor 
with  an  expression  of  patient  resignation.  Whatever  re- 
gret she  felt  was  no  doubt  more  easily  to  be  borne  than 
the  risk  of  a  sharp  retort  from  her  bold,  intimidating 
daughter-in-law.  Dickie  and  Adela,  alone,  appeared  to  be 
quite  unaffected. 

"Well,"  Edward  remarked  at  last,  looking  at  his  watch, 
"Helen  and  I  have  to  drive  home,  you  know,  mater.  Hadn't 
we  better  have  prayers?" 

Old  Mrs.  Lynneker  thankfully  accepted  the  suggestion. 
"Shall  we  have  a  hymn?"  she  asked. 

Edward  nodded  gravely.  "I  think  so,"  he  said,  and 
looked  questioningly  at  his  mother  as  if  he  expected  her 
to  make  some  particular  suggestion. 

She  understood  his  thought,  and  framed  the  words, 
"Abide  with  Me,"  with  her  lips,  as  if  she  were  afraid  to 
trust  herself  to  mention  the  Rector's  favourite  hymn. 


THE  LYNNEKER  FAMILY  455 

Edward  nodded  again.  "You  play  it,  mater,"  he  said,  as 
Eleanor  made  a  movement  towards  the  piano. 

He  rang  the  bell  for  the  two  maids  while  *his  mother 
took  down  the  big  hymn  book,  put  on  her  spectacles  and 
settled  herself  on  the  music  stool. 

But  when  the  maids  had  come  in,  and  they  were  all 
waiting  for  him,  he  seemed  to  find  a  difficulty  in  giving 
out  the  hymn  in  the  usual  form.  He  hesitated  through  a 
long  silence  of  expectation  before  he  made  his  announce- 
ment in  the  briefest  possible  words.  "Twenty-seven,"  he 
said  in  an  embarrassed  aside  to  the  two  maids. 

For  the  first  two  or  three  lines  they  all  sang  together 
with  a  brave  determination  to  show  a  fine  self-control  be- 
fore the  servants;  and  then  the  harmony  grew  weaker 
as  one  singer  after  the  other  fell  out. 

Edward  had  half  turned  his  back  to  the  room.  Latimer 
was  bending  over  his  mother  at  the  piano  as  if  he  found 
great  difficulty  in  reading  the  very  large  print  of  the  hymn- 
book  from  which  she  was  playing  with  an  occasional  pa- 
thetic inaccuracy.  Eleanor  stared  before  her  with  a  set, 
determined  face,  stoically  enduring  the  pain  of  this  last 
act  of  self-sacrifice  she  had  been  called  upon  to  make. 
Aunt  Mary  and  Helen  were  crying  silently  and  unob- 
trusively; and  Adela  appeared  to  be  lost  in  some  melan- 
choly but  not  actively  unpleasant  reverie.  Martyn's  sense 
of  fitness,  no  doubt,  kept  him  silent.  And  so,  at  last,  only 
Mrs.  Latimer  was  left  to  maintain  the  hymn  in  her  full, 
unsympathetic  contralto.  She  was  a  stranger — it  was  im- 
possible to  believe  that  her  two  children  would  have  any- 
thing in  common  with  the  Lynnekers. 

Dickie,  erect  and  thoughtful,  was  wondering  whether  it 
would  have  made  any  difference  in  his  father's  life  if  all 
this  sympathy  and  emotion  had  been  lavished  upon  him 
while  he  was  still  able  to  appreciate  it.  If  his  wife  and 
children  had  tried  to  understand  him  better,  he  might  have 
entered  more  freely  into  their  lives.  He  had  been  proud 
of  them  all ;  and  yet  he  had  built  himself  deeper  and  deeper 
into  his  reserves  until,  at  last,  his  spirit  had  crept  away 


456  THESE  LYNNEKERS 

into  some  final  solitude  without  a  word  of  farewell  or 
regret.  .  .  . 

•But,  in  any  case,  Dickie  would  not  have  joined  in  the 
hymn. 

He  had  never  been  able  to  sing  in  tune. 


THE    END 


IB  DP*  w  THE  LAST  P 
TOW 


I  L. 


393837 


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